


Only For The Lucky

by SunseticMonster



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Funny, HP: EWE, Healers, M/M, Mind/Mood Altering Substances, Post - Deathly Hallows, Potions, Romance, Substance Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-10
Updated: 2013-03-10
Packaged: 2017-12-04 21:41:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 63,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/715393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunseticMonster/pseuds/SunseticMonster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Things seem to be going well for Draco Malfoy after the war.  He's working as a professor at Hogwarts and makes the papers all the time for his charitable contribution to Muggle causes.</p><p>But when Malfoy is rushed into St Mungos hospital for a psychotic break, Healer Harry Potter realizes that Malfoy's success is not all what it seems and sometimes luck can have more than one meaning.</p><p>Healer!Harry, PotionsAddict!Draco  Theme: Luck</p><p>Many thanks forever and ever to incredible Beta and lifelong friend Amalin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Break-time at Saint Mungos was always a blessed moment in Harry’s day.

It meant dragging his overworked body into the cafeteria for a burnt-tasting, yet somehow luke-cold cup of coffee and an apple, snatching up a forgotten Daily Prophet off of one of the tables and hoping that whoever had the newspaper first had left the Word Scramble section blank. 

It meant Susan Bones offering him biscuits and gossip and mutual complaints about Malcolm Baddock and what a snarky little shite he was and how residency was just so very exhausting.

It also meant, once he’d finished the Word Scrambles, of course, a few minutes to catch up on the news outside of Saint Mungo’s, which sometimes felt like his home away from home since he spent, on average, three nights a week sleeping in his flat.  The rest of the time he was on-call, working overnight shifts or unable to remove himself from Ron and Hermione’s couch.  The last month had been especially difficult since he and Baddock and Susan had been doing their monthly rotation in Emergencies which meant they were nearly always on-call.  Harry was counting down the days to March when he’d be put on a new rotation.  He just prayed it was something with normal work hours.

That day, someone had already tried their hand at the Word Scrambles, Harry noticed with a scowl, and had inked up the entire games section with multiple cross-outs that were nowhere near the correct answers.  The Daily Prophet put a special jinx on newspapers to prevent people from spelling off the ink and somehow _knowing_ the correct answers was not as satisfying as actually _writing them in_ , so, slightly irked, Harry flipped through the newspaper.  The Daily Prophet would do anything to make a sickle.

Harry had been seeing Draco Malfoy’s name in the Daily Prophet for a while now.  It seemed there was always a little blurb or clipping mentioning Malfoy’s success in securing additional funds for Hogwarts, in launching new Potions, in holding successful fundraisers and, in Harry’s opinion, trying to better his name in the public eye.

Not that Harry had been paying attention.  He had a habit of checking the papers daily to be sure that his own name hadn’t been mentioned or slandered or anything, that was all.

Lately, however, Malfoy’s name had been appearing in the Society section of the newspaper more often than it had been in the Local section.  He’d been photographed engaging in daring escapades and appeared to be living the life of a socialite, despite the fact that the Malfoys had been forced to pay an exorbitant amount of reparation funds to avoid time in Azkaban.  Many thought that the family had gotten away, literally, with murder, as they served only a two-year house arrest sentence on top of the fines.

Since the Manor was still in the Malfoy name and had been paid off for years, they were allowed to keep it; however, according to Hermione, their Gringott’s vault had been nearly emptied of Galleons, gold, deeds to other Manors and anything else that the Ministry found to be a worthy retribution. 

Harry suspected that, in a way, forcing the Malfoys to live together in the Manor was a form of punishment all its own.  The family had no money and were stuck living together in the house that had been Voldemort’s base for the last two years of the war.

Harry took another sip of coffee and glanced at the picture of Malfoy on the front cover.  “Professor Malfoy Donates 2 Million Galleons to Muggle-Born Education Fund.”  Beneath the headline was a photo of the young blond, dressed impeccably in stylish robes, grinning wildly at the camera with a sort of manic look in his eye.  He held a drink in one hand and swung an arm around a bearded man beside him, dragging the other fellow into the picture with a hearty hug.  His behavior seemed a bit boisterous, in Harry’s opinion, but figured it was probably due to whatever drink he was imbibing.  Draco Malfoy was as slinky and waifish as he’d been in school; Harry had no doubt he was a lightweight.

“Staring at pictures of Malfoy again?” asked Susan Bones, peering over Harry’s shoulder and dropping a package of opened biscuits on the table in front of him.  Harry scrubbed tiredly at his eyes and gave Susan a weary grin. 

“He just seems so different, is all,” Harry said, reaching for a biscuit and dunking it in his luke-cold coffee.  He could have cast a warming spell on it, but just didn’t have the energy to reach into his pocket and grab his wand. Plus, a warming spell always made the coffee taste even worse.  It was a bit of a conundrum, coffee.  One never had the energy to make it until after it’d been consumed.  Kind of like how glasses were the one thing a person could never find . . .

“Earth to Healer Potter,” Susan said, waving a hand in front of Harry’s face.  

“Huh, what?”

“I just agreed with you, is all.”

“Mmm.”  Harry swallowed the biscuit and watched Malfoy throw an arm around the bearded man—Joseph Gricharak, according to the article—for the fifth time.

“Not at all the uppity little prat he used to be, it seems,” Susan said.  “Though it could all be for show.”

“Knowing Malfoy, that’s exactly what it’s for,” said Harry.

“I wonder where he gets the funds, though?” Susan asked, tilting her head to the side.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, the Ministry took all of the Malfoy’s money, right?” Susan gestured with outstretched palms.  Harry noticed that they looked dry and calloused, like his own, from the continuous cleaning spells required of Healers.  “I know they don’t pay Hogwarts’ professors _that_ well.”

Harry hadn’t thought of that.  He frowned.  “Yeah, you’re right.  According to Hermione, the Malfoys were left with next to nothing after the war.”

“Serves them right,” she muttered, then pushed the rest of the package towards Harry.  “Here, I don’t want these anymore.”  

Harry perused the article a bit.  “Hmm, it says here that this Joseph bloke,” he tapped on the face of the bearded man in the picture, “seems to have struck some sort of a deal with him.  He must have fronted the money for the education fund.”

Susan raised her eyebrows.  “That’s a heck of a deal to be making.  Joseph Gricharak must care a lot about Muggle-born education, because I doubt Malfoy does.”

Harry shrugged.  “Well, he is a Professor now.  Maybe he’s changed.”

Susan smirked.  “Don’t get your hopes up, Harry,” she said with a wink.  “I hear he’s a bit of a heart-breaker these days.”

Before Harry could protest, Susan had stood up and walked out of the cafeteria. 

Sighing, Harry tore the article out, folded it into eighths and stuck it in the pocket of his lime-green robes.  It couldn’t hurt to keep an eye on Malfoy.  Knowledge was power, after all.

…

…

…

“Harry,” Hermione’s face popped up in the Floo as Harry tripped over himself grabbing last minute items.  He snatched up a pair of gloves and began pulling them on when he realized that they were gloves for yard work.  “Shite.”  He tore them off and began searching for his dragon-hide ones.  Spotting them on the mantle, he reached up, tripped slightly on a bump on the carpet and fell face-forward into the Floo, smacking heads with Hermione, somewhere in the dimension between their two flats.

“Ow, bugger!” He popped back, and grimaced, sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the Floo, rubbing his forehead and watching Hermione in the green flames do the same. “You all right?”

Hermione grumbled something and rubbed at her forehead, too.  “Do you have everything you need?”

Looking down, Harry self-assessed for the millionth time.  “Dress robes, check, my hair’s in order, as much as it can be, um, I have my shoes—”

“The black ones?”

“Um,” Harry looked at his feet.  “Yup.”

“And your speech?”

“My speech!” Harry popped up off the floor.  “It’s just in my room,” he called.

“Harry, slow down!” He could hear Hermione’s voice coming out of the living room as he tore through his bedroom in search of the speech that Hermione had helped him to write for the 5th Anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts.  Harry had begged and pleaded with Professor McGonagall not to make him to do it, but she had insisted, and because he so respected the woman, and her tight-lipped no-nonsense stare still scared the shite out of him, Harry had agreed.  So, with Hermione’s help, they had put together a decent piece to read at the evening’s events.

But where the hell was it?

Kreacher had visited the flat last week and tidied up what Harry considered to be an organized mess.  While the room appeared spotless, Kreacher had a tendency to just shove things into drawers and closets so that Harry knew where nothing was.  “Speech, speech. Where did I . . Oh!” He pulled out his wand and cast a locating spell. “Point Me!” he commanded. The wand spun and tugged him in the direction of his closet where he found himself reaching up and pulling at a tangled stack of bags, duffels, knapsacks, scarves and extra hangers that had been jammed into a sort of box shape on the top shelf.

The dusty pile of items burst forth and showered down on Harry littering the shoulders of his black dress robes in a white, powdery lint.  He sneezed and dug himself out of the bags and hangers, unhooking a strap that was dangling off one of his buttons.  His wand led him to one bag in particular, a nice brown, dragon-hide work satchel.  Harry smacked at it a few times to clear off the dust, then peeked inside.

Sure enough, the folded papers of his speech were there along with several other boxes, quill bits and odds and ends that had found their way inside the bag over the years.  

“Have you found it?”

Harry jumped and turned.  Hermione had come through the Floo and was standing in the doorway of his bedroom in a long, red evening gown, shaking her head in exasperation.  

“Uh—” Harry started digging inside the bag when Hermione grabbed his arm and started dragging him out of the room.

“Come on, just take the whole bag,” said Hermione, clicking her heels importantly through Harry’s flat.  “We’re going to be late.  Ron’s already there and McGonagall will have kittens if you don’t show soon.”

“You look nice,” Harry said as he tripped over his feet to keep up with one of his oldest friends.  Hermione, impervious to most things, but still a girl at heart, grinned at the compliment and gave Harry a nod.

“Thank you, Harry,” she said.  “So do you.” She paused to regard him.  “Except for this.” With a smirk, Hermione reached and plucked something off of Harry’s ear.  It was a bookmark with picture of a cartoon Flobberworm sitting on an ice cube in a graduation cap. Underneath, it read, “Bookworms are COOL.”  Tiny little shooting stars sailed across the image. 

Harry shrugged and Hermione giggled, tucking the bookmark inside Harry’s bag.

“Ready?” she asked.

“Could’ve done with a Firewhisky,” he muttered, wiping his sweaty palms on his trousers.

Hermione tsked.  “There will be plenty at the celebration, _after_ you’ve made your speech.”

Harry didn’t need to be reminded of the disaster at the one year anniversary when, nervous at the prospect of speaking to the entire wizarding community, Ron had thought Harry needed to relax with a few drinks beforehand.  A few had turned into a few too many and Harry had barely begun his speech when his stomach started feeling not-so-good.  He’d cut the speech short with a hardy and slurred, “Voldemort won’t ruin _this_ celebration, we’ve all seen to that.  So here’s to the fallen and the fighters and the few—the many and the few.  Forever and ever.  And ever. Cheers, Hogwarts!” 

Though Hagrid had approached him with tears in his eyes, the Daily Prophet had had a field day with it and the phrase “Voldemort won’t ruin _this_ celebration,” had become something of a local fad.  Ron had even purchased Harry a mug from a vendor in Diagon Alley with the saying and a picture of Harry on the back with a bubble coming out of his mouth saying, “Cheers, Hogwarts!”

….

….

….

Hours later, the speech had gone just fine, surprisingly, and Harry was relaxing at a table in the Great Hall with Ron, Hermione and Ginny, catching up with a few other schoolmates he hadn’t seen in years.  Ginny was sitting on Dean’s lap, smiling.  She’d been dating Dean since the end of the war, when it had become clear that Harry and Ginny just weren’t going to work out.   Things between them  had never quite been the same as they were at Hogwarts and Harry simply wasn’t in the right frame of mind to be dating anyone at the time.  

And despite his improved frame of mind, Harry still hadn’t managed to date anyone long term, but it wasn’t for lack of trying.

As his friends talked, Harry looked around the Great Hall. It was interesting, he thought, how everyone seemed to gravitate toward the same seats that they had usually sat in as students. The Gryffindors were together at one table, as were the Hufflepuffs, Ravenclaws and Slytherins.  Some were mixed, such as Hannah and her fiancé, Anthony Goldstein, who were sitting together at the Hufflepuff table.  Others who hadn’t attended Hogwarts found room at the less-crowded Slytherin table.

“You need a refill?” Harry asked Ron, who nodded and tipped his empty glass in Harry’s direction.  Harry picked up both of their glasses and made his way toward the banquet set up along the side of the Great Hall.  Two of Hogwarts’ employed house-elves were manning (elfing?) the bar and Harry got into queue to wait his turn. 

“Nice speech, Potter,” said a familiar, cool voice.  Harry knew who it was immediately and, instead of feeling the usual dread he’d associated with a Malfoy encounter, Harry felt a spike of excitement.  He turned.

Damn.

Draco Malfoy looked good.

Really good.

The blond had grown his hair just a little bit longer than he’d worn it in school, but it was nothing like the severe, long chop that Lucius had sported.  The hair looked baby soft, and curled gently behind his ears, the very back skimming the shoulders of his steel grey dress robes.  They were clearly designer robes and the smooth, angled cut made Malfoy appear tall and sleek and stylish.  

“Malfoy,” Harry said with a nod.

“ _Professor_ Malfoy,” the man corrected with a familiar, pompous smirk.  His eyes were bright, the grey nearly blue and standing out boldly against his pale skin, complimented by the metallic of his robes, and surrounded by strangely flattering silver frames.

“Ah, yes,” Harry said, holding back an eye-roll.  “My apologies.”

Malfoy extended a hand then, and baffled, Harry accepted and shook it.  The last time they’d seen one another was at the Malfoy trials four years earlier and then Malfoy had been small-looking and scared.  Before that had been in the Room of the Requirement . . . 

“’Been a while.” Malfoy handed his cup to one of the elves and gestured to a bottle of one of the finer Firewhiskies.  

“Yeah,” said Harry.  “Um-is that any good?” He pointed at the Firewhisky that was now being poured into Malfoy’s glass, emitting a soft curl of steam.

“No, Potter.  It’s terrible.  That’s why I’m drinking it.”

“Fair enough.” Harry snorted and turned back to the House-Elf. "Two of the same."  

“So,” said Malfoy, tipping his head to the side and regarding Harry with a little grin.  “Decided to hold off on the drinks until after the speech this year?”

“Um, yeah,” said Harry, shrugging awkwardly and taking the drinks.   Malfoy laughed giddily, as though he was taking immense pleasure in making Harry uncomfortable.  “So . . Hogwarts,” Harry said, fishing for something to talk about. He had started heading back to the Gryffindor table and Malfoy was carrying his drink, walking alongside him.  Malfoy paused by the doors of the Great Hall and Harry stopped, too.

“Yes.  Hogwarts.”  The blondspread his hands out to the side as if to gesture to the space. 

“I mean,” said Harry, feeling stupid.  “You're working here now?”

“Was it the ‘Professor’ comment that tipped you off?” Malfoy raised an eyebrow and took a sip of his Firewhisky. 

“I’ve been following you in the papers—” Harry blurted out. An immediate blush heated his cheeks.  He could only imagine what Susan would say if she’d heard him.  

“Mmm,” Malfoy drawled, eyes squinted in delight.  He leaned forward, as if trying to get a better look at Harry.  “ _Really?”_  

Harry began to protest when a brunette draped herself across Malfoy’s shoulders, sending the blond stumbling back a step or two.

“Darling!” It was Pansy Parkinson and Harry couldn’t help but make a face.  For some reason it seemed easier to forgive Malfoy than it was to forget that Parkinson had been willing to hand him over to Voldemort.  Perhaps it was because Harry had witnessed Voldemort bully a terrified Malfoy into acts of cruelty and knew he’d been miserable the entire time.

“Oh,” Parkinson said, straightening up and smoothing her skirt.  She gave Harry a very obvious once-over.  He felt suddenly exposed. “Hmm.  Not bad. Could be better.”

_That’s rich_ , thought Harry, considering the woman resembled a bulldog with bangs. “Excuse me?” 

“You’re not excused,” Parkinson said. She looked up at Malfoy.  He was also making a kind of funny face and Harry noticed that beads of sweat were gathering along his brow. She began tugging on his arm. “Draco, come and sit with the Slytherins!  It must be dreadfully boring up there at the staff table.”

“No, actually,” said Malfoy, looking distracted.  “Flitwick Owl-ordered one of those Winston-Hughes 99-knut joke books.  He’s got everyone up there in stitches.” A green, embroidered handkerchief was pulled out of Malfoy’s pocket and he began to dab at his forehead.  His eyes darted from the Slytherin table to the Head Table and then to the doors of the Great Hall in a skittish manner. 

“Really.” She sounded doubtful.  Harry couldn’t tell if Malfoy was being sarcastic or not.  “It just isn’t the same without you.”

 “Pansy, you know I can’t,” he said, shrugging her off.

“Oh, come _on_ , Draco, bend the rules a bit.”

“Pansy—”

“The Fat Friar keeps ‘pretending’ to drop food on the floor, but I know he’s really looking up my skirt—”

Malfoy looked suddenly very irritated.  “Later,” he snapped.  Turning to Harry he said,  “Potter, if you’ll excuse me, I just need to step out for a bit.”

“Er, right,” said Harry, scratching the back of his head.  He watched as Malfoy turned quickly from him and strode from the Great Hall, his limber frame smooth and confident.

A sharp jab hit him in the side. “Ouch!” Harry yelped.  

Parkinson was scowling at him.  “Don’t get any ideas, Potter,” she snapped.

“Huh?” Harry rubbed at his ribs.

“Draco’s more of a love-’em and leave-’em type.” Parkinson’s eyes followed Malfoy as he disappeared from sight.  “I should know.” She turned and sauntered away, leaving Harry baffled and alone.

….

….

….

A few hours later, the celebrations were beginning to wind down.  A few more speeches had been made, including Malfoy’s Scholarship dedication to future Muggle-born witches and wizards. Malfoy  made some sort of speech, but Harry was too fixated on his glasses to focus.  He wondered when Malfoy had started needing glasses or if they were just for style. 

When Malfoy finished, he received an extra hug of thanks from McGonagall, which he accepted gracefully. Dessert had been served, and now all that remained were the mostly-younger witches and wizards, burning through the alcohol, and reminiscing about their school days or catching up on life.

Any discussion of war was an unspoken faux pas that no one dared make.

Harry’s speech was sitting on the table in front of him, now covered in food stains and sticky drink spills.  Thinking he should probably save it for future reference, he re-folded it on the crease marks and opened up his bag to stick it inside.

A long, leather pouch in the bag caught his attention. It looked like . . . No.  It couldn’t be . . .

Reaching in, Harry pulled out the leather pouch and opened the mouth of the drawstring bag.  Sure enough, there it was. Draco Malfoy’s hawthorn wand.  The one Harry’d been telling himself for five years that he’d return _this week_.  Right after he did laundry and got air in his bike tires.

“Blimey,” he murmured, pulling out the wand.  Resting in his hands, the wand felt as connected with him as it had years ago.  Hermione managed to convince Harry to take the wand to Ollivander’s right after the war and perform a Single Wand Separation Spell, to ensure that anyone who mastered the hawthorn wand would not automatically become the master of the Elder Wand.  Being master of so many wands was not as re-assuring as it seemed.  If one fell into the wrong hands . . . 

The Single Wand Separation Spell ensured that Harry was master of all three wands only until he was disarmed.  Then that wand, alone, would fall into new allegiance.

Harry looked around for Malfoy but his seat at the staff table was empty now and he appeared not to have taken up Parkinson’s offer to sit at the Slytherin table.  

Relaxed now and dizzy from all the Firewhisky he had consumed, Harry decided to step outside for a bit of fresh air. He stuck Malfoy’s wand in the pocket of his robes, just in case.

Leaning against a pillar outside of the entrance, Harry peered across the still grounds.  They were so peaceful and dark, a far cry from what Hogwarts had looked like only five short years ago.  So many lives had been lost that night.  Fred, Lupin, Tonks . . . young and old.  Irreplaceable lives.  People that might have been spared had Harry somehow done better, moved faster.

The years after the war had been trying on Harry.  He’d held himself responsible for every death incurred.  The defeat of Voldemort brought a modicum of relief, but any triumph had been doused by the cold reality of hundreds of funerals, and trials, and reparations . . . 

A stifled giggle brought Harry back to himself. Turning slowly, his hand on his wand, he found Draco Malfoy lingering about four inches away from his right shoulder, a broad grin stretched across his face.

Harry stepped quickly back and to the side, his heart racing.  

“Potter,” Malfoy said, his grin growing impossibly wide.  He seemed to be bouncing, almost, on the balls of his feet, looking giddy and excited.  He bit his lip and looked off to the side, then back at Harry.

“You alright?” Harry asked with a frown. The look on the blond’s face was starting to creep him out a bit.  Also, he didn’t appear to be blinking.

“Fine, yeah, fine.”  Malfoy raised his eyebrows and continued to smile goofily.

Harry chuckled uneasily and shrugged.  “If you say so.  Oh, um, a strange thing happened.”

“Yes?”

“I grabbed this one bag tonight, and I was looking through it earlier and it happened to have your wand in it, funnily enough.” 

Malfoy let out a sharp laugh and threw his head back, then seemed to gather his wits.  “Really?”  He locked eyes with Harry.  “That is _ever_ so fortunate.”

“Er-yeah. Here,” Harry dug into the bag and pulled out the drawstring bag.  Malfoy snatched it from him with a greedy look in his eyes and made a little high-pitched noise of glee.  “Um. It’s not that I meant not to give it back or anything, it’s just, I’ve been so busy, what with work and—”

The blond waved him off, “Fine, fine.”

“Ah. Right.” Malfoy’s unblinking gaze was running over every inch of the hawthorn wand and Harry, feeling like he was interrupting a very personal moment, turned to leave.  “Well, I guess I’ll see—”

“Want to play Quidditch?”  Malfoy’s eyes had switched from the wand to Harry and they held a bit of a mad gleam.  

“What?” Harry blinked, startled.

“Quidditch, Potter,” he said with a little laugh, gesturing his hands excessively.  If Harry wasn’t mistaken, he swore they were trembling.  “Broomsticks, Quaffles, Snitches, Rings, you’ve heard of it, I’m sure?”

“Uh, yeah.  What? Do you play in a weekend league or something?”

“Tah, no.”  Malfoy glanced in the direction of the Quidditch Pitch with a vacant look in his eye then he whipped his head back to Harry.  “Come on, Potter.”  He gave Harry a light shove on the shoulder.   “I challenge you.  Seeker’s game, right now.  I’m an even better flyer than I was in school, I can take you.”

Astonished, Harry just shook his head.  Was Malfoy serious?  Was he drunk?  “No, thank you.  I don’t think that’s such a good idea.  We’ve both been drinking a lot and—”

“I haven’t.”

“Well,” Harry was beginning to grow annoyed.  “I have.  And, thanks, but, no thanks.  How about a rain check?”

“Scared, Potter?” 

Harry paused and regarded him.  While Harry had made quite a few trips up to the drinks table, he’d only seen Malfoy up there the one time.  And, really, he seemed steady, he wasn’t slurring . . .

So why was he acting so strangely?

“Come on, Potty.  A hundred Galleons says I beat you to the Snitch. No-two hundred.”  

“Harry?”  Harry turned away from the nearly-vibrating spectacle and looked at the entrance.  Hermione was peering out with a sleepy-looking Ron at her side. “We’re about to get going.” She frowned and craned her neck forward.  “Who were you just talking to?”

Harry looked back at where Malfoy had been standing not a minute before and saw only the empty grounds.  “Um. No one?” He frowned.  What the hell?  Where had he gone?   “I’m coming.”

….

….

….

“Code eleven, Code eleven.”  It was Healer Malone’s eagle Patronus, and the signal that Harry, Susan and Baddock needed to haul their arses to the East Wing of St. Mungos.  It was their last day on the emergency rotation, but that certainly didn’t mean they’d get a moment’s rest.

The three Resident Healers quickly snapped shut the books they had been studying from and began briskly heading toward Healer Malone in the East Wing, straightening their robes as they hurried.

“Who do you reckon gets lead on this one?” Malcolm Baddock asked, breathlessly, as they turned a corner.

“Well,” said Susan, “You got the little boy with the extra arm growing from his ear last week. This one’s probably on Potter.”

“But,” Baddock protested, “Potter got to do the joint reconstruction on Brown.”

“True,” said Harry, hoping he got whatever this case was, simply because he’d been feeling a bit stale at work lately, “but that was strictly routine.  It wasn’t anything that—”

“GET YOUR FILTHY HANDS OFF OF ME!”  A voice roared from the next room.  Susan and Harry raised their eyebrows, exchanging a look.  “OUCH! FUCK!”

“Sir,” Harry could hear Healer Malone’s stern tone and knew immediately that this patient was going to be his case.  Baddock, while smart and hard-working, often butted heads with patients and had a terrible bedside manner.  Harry, while not much better than Baddock, in that respect, had been told that he had a face that patients could trust. At least, that’s what Susan always said when Harry got stuck with the ornery ones time and again.

When they arrived in the open space, Harry hesitated only a moment before springing into action.  A man was being restrained by two Aurors and a Healer’s Assistant.  He was covered in blood and writhing about on the floor as the H.A. attempted to calm him down and coax him onto a stretcher.

“Sir,” said the Healer’s Assistant, a tiny girl named Penelope with large glasses.  “Sir, I need you please calm down and tell us what happened.”

“I TOLD YOU, I TOLD YOU!” The man screamed, his voice tearing out raw as though he’d been at it for hours. “HE’S AFTER ME!  THE BUGGERING MERLIN-HE SAW.  Say, who KNOWS what he saw?  All I can say is HE DID IT AND HE’LL DO IT AGAIN!”

The man then began to let out a sharp, high-pitched laugh that echoed maddeningly in the corridor.  

“I know where he is,” the man laughed.  “I do—I know exactly—YOU’VE GOT TO LET ME GO!  I can’t stay-I’ve got to . . . I’ve got… Got to.”  He slowed down his movements and paused for a moment.

“Sir, please—”

“GET OFF ME!” The man began thrashing about again in earnest and managed to knock Penelope back against the wall. Free from restraint, he scrambled up, turning to face Harry, Bones and Baddock.

And that’s when Harry’s jaw dropped.

“ _Malfoy?”_ Harry and Baddock breathed together.

Draco Malfoy’s enormous eyes sparked with recognition at the sight of the former Slytherin. “Little Baddock!” he gasped, doing a sort of dance. “Little Baddock, you’ve got to—” Malfoy looked around wildly.  When he saw Harry he made a funny sort of face where he wrinkled his nose and widened his eyes.  Then he turned around and started bolting toward an empty corridor, wand in hand.

Susan Bones sprang into action and apprehended Malfoy, casting an Incarcerous and quickly disarming him.

Harry snapped out of his shock and ran toward Susan, seizing the nearest floating stretcher and levitating Malfoy’s twitching form onto it.

“Healer Potter,” called Healer Malone.  “Take lead.”

“Yes, sir.”

Malfoy howled and shouted profanities as they brought him into an empty room and transferred him onto a bed, hooking him up to various pieces of scanning equipment.

Harry leaned closely to him.  He was sweating and trembling.  “Malfoy, I need you to tell me what happened.”

“Potter!” he snarled, writhing in his magical restraints. “You sent Aurors after me, didn’t you? Didn’t you?  You did! Can’t even trust me, never could!” 

Harry exchanged glances with Baddock.

Susan began to administer quick checks on Malfoy’s basic stats.

“Blood pressure?” Baddock asked, scribbling on a clipboard.

“One-eighty over a hundred.”

“Heart rate?” asked Baddock.

“One-twenty.”

“Merlin,” said Harry.  Starting to suspect that something more than fear and physical injury was at play here, Harry quickly ordered Susan to administer a heart-slowing potion and then sent her to fetch a Calming Draught.

Malfoy’s grey eyes were wide and his face was pulled tightly into a grimace.  Harry shined a Lumos into Malfoy’s eyes.  His pupils were enormous.

“Malfoy,” Harry said, carefully, “have you ingested anything today?  Potions, drugs, chemicals of any sort?”

“Potty, I told you,” Malfoy moaned, then hissed in pain, squinting his eyes shut. “It’s the Aurors.  They’re looking for my . . . they’re after. Gricharak. I promised—” He hissed again and began moaning.  “Owwwaaaaaahhh . . .”

“Where’s the pain?”

Baddock had cast a magical sensor over Malfoy and Harry could see an angry, red throbbing aura over Malfoy’s right side.  “It’s his liver,” Baddock said, shaking his head in exasperation.  Harry felt his stomach sink.  That could only mean one thing.

“Malfoy,” Harry’s voice was insistent as Baddock searched the cabinet for an overdose kit.  “You need to tell me what you took.”

Malfoy shook his head fervently, whipping his chin from side to side, lips pressed tightly together.  His hair was matted against his forehead with sweat.  Grey eyes widened suddenly and Malfoy heaved once, twice—

Harry thrust a bin under his chin and Malfoy vomited. A glowing, golden liquid splashed against the metal bin and Harry and Baddock exchanged a look.

“Holy shite,” Harry muttered.

….

….

….

Once Malfoy had been forced to ingest a bottle of Potion-Expunger, the three Resident Healers sat down and waited, taking turns helping Malfoy to hold the bucket under his chin as he continued to sick-up copious amounts of what they’d quickly determined was regurgitated Felix Felicis--a deadly and insane amount of Felix Felicis that only a person with a raging tolerance and definite addiction to the substance could ingest without incurring immediate death.

And for the time being, it appeared as though Malfoy was going to be lucky.  Harry ordered that the Calming Draught not be used, due to the state of his liver.  Instead, Harry had used a less-effective Calming Charm to bring down his heart-rate and blood pressure and Susan had cast a series of spells to reduce the internal pain that Malfoy was experiencing, without subjecting his liver to additional abuse.

The blond shook and swore and sweated and puked as the three continued to take shifts, replace lost fluids and electrolytes and, in the case of Harry, wonder what the hell had possessed Malfoy to get into such a state.

During the last of visiting hours, Harry was surprised, though he shouldn’t have been, to see Narcissa Malfoy in the waiting room, clutching a handkerchief and begging to see her son.

“I’m sorry,” said Penelope, “but you cannot go in there right now.”

“I am certain that someone here can tell me something,” Narcissa hissed, her red eyes turning away from Penelope and falling onto Harry.  “Healer Potter.” Her voice was strained and eyes weary. “Where is my son?  Tell me what is happening.”  She looked desperate and seemed to just barely stop herself from clinging onto Harry’s robes.  

“Mrs. Malfoy,” Harry said carefully, taking pity on the woman whom he knew had risked her own life for her son before and would do anything for him.  “Malfoy—er, Draco, I mean.  It looks like he’s going to make it.”

Her eyes shone with relief but she looked no less tense.  “I understand he was,” she frowned, “attacked?”

Harry nodded.  “Yes.  But the injuries sustained in the attack are secondary to another more serious situation.”

“Tell me.”

“What do you know about Felix Felicis?” Harry asked with a sigh.

Narcissa laughed, looking abashed.  “Pardon me? Felix _Felicis?_ ”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She frowned. “You want to give my son a luck potion?  What for?”

“Er, no.”  Harry said, quickly assessing that Mrs. Malfoy was _not_ aware of what her son had been up to.  “Draco has consumed an excessive amount of the potion and—”

“He was poisoned?”  Her eyes widened.

“Mrs. Malfoy,” Harry said, keeping his voice slow and even.  “At this point, we believe that the potion was self-administered—”

“Mr. Potter,” she snapped, her eyes growing icy.  “My son is a Potion’s Master.  Are you suggesting that he accidentally—”

“Not an accident,” Harry said, holding up a hand to prevent Narcissa Malfoy from interrupting him again.  “From the sheer amount of potion in his system, it is my professional opinion that your son has been intentionally consuming Felix Felicis and that this has been going on for quite some time.”

Narcissa said nothing, just shook her head.

“The amount of Felix Felicis in Draco’s system should have killed him instantly—”

She gasped, covering her mouth with one hand.

“—but, it didn’t.  Which means he has built up a tolerance to the potion, suggesting, unfortunately, a very serious problem.”

“No,” she breathed, looking at the floor.  She snapped her eyes back up to Harry.  “You are wrong, Healer Potter.  Draco would never . . .  check him again.  I want to see him.”

“You can’t—”

“Check. Him. Again.”

Harry shook his head softly and turned from the waiting room leaving Narcissa Malfoy clutching a handkerchief.

….

….

….

So hot.  He was so hot.  And itchy. And God.  

Death, anything, death would be better than this… pain.  

Like the searing burn of the Dark Mark, Draco could feel his blood boiling through him, his body, changing, he needed-

God, no.  

Draco snapped open his eyes and found himself in a dim room, the incessant beeping crawled up his spine like spiders, nesting on his neck, trickling through his ears.

_Help me_ , he thought, and let out a loud, keening moan as thoughts swirled through his mind.

Useless. Failure. He deserved the pain.  He’d never be happy again.  

He needed to die because he would never, ever achieve anything.

Draco tried to reach up to wipe itchy tears off of his face but found his arms bound, unable to do anything to remove the hot trickle sliding down his cheeks towards the spiders in his ears.

Someone was crying and screaming and it sounded like his father’s voice but it was so far away, so distant from the tearing in his throat and the other voice whispering to him, “You’re okay.  You’re okay.  You’re going to get through this.”

Draco could hear that faraway voice begging for death and somewhere in the corner of his mind he agreed that, yes, death, would be better than this, and he started pleading for it, too.

“Stop it, Malfoy,” the gentle voice said.  “You’re not going to die.  You’re going to live.  You are going to be okay and you are in safe hands now.”

“I don’t want to live.”  Draco was certain that was his own voice.

“Well, Malfoy, living is your only option right now.”

Draco squinted at the person holding his hand.  “Potter?” he grated, his voice hoarse.

The pressure on his hand increased and then Potter reached up a towel and wiped at Draco’s face, the scratchy fibers soothing the flaming itch of his crawling skin.

“Yeah, Malfoy, it’s me.”

In too much pain to be embarrassed, Draco tried to steady his breathing, stop his sweating, control the rolling nausea that stormed through him in waves.  “I’m going to be sick.”

Potter held a bin up under him and, shame now added to the mix, Draco vomited into the dustbin as Potter rubbed soothing circles on his back.

….

….

….

Unable to sleep, Harry sat in his London flat, thinking about the state of his former enemy.  It was frightening to see Malfoy, who had always been so fastidious, so proper, so much _better_ that everyone else, reduced to the desperation of an addict.

Harry had been reassigned that evening to continue with Malfoy’s case under the direction of Healer McClintock in the Medical Addictions and Rehabilitation Ward.  Harry had done a bit of work with McClintock in the past and had received high marks in counseling which, he was sure, was partially due to his soothing nature.

Narcissa Malfoy had eventually been convinced that her son had, indeed, been using Felix Felicis.  Because Aurors had been involved when Malfoy initially reported an attack in his state of Felix-induced psychosis, an investigation had been opened.   Questions began to arise as to where Malfoy had obtained the ingredients for Felix.  A quick check of the payroll ledgers made it all too clear that he had used his position at Hogwarts to obtain mass quantities of the drug.  McGonagall had been notified immediately.  

Most individuals in Malfoy’s situation would be sacked for such a scandal, so Harry was shocked when McGonagall offered to hold Malfoy’s position for him, upon successful completion of the rehabilitation program and proof of sobriety.

He must have been really good at his job, Harry thought.

Still, Harry felt unnerved that he would now be working to rehabilitate Malfoy.  While he’d been certain before that the man had changed, Harry felt now that Malfoy’s generous boisterousness and friendly nature had just been a fabricated result of the gross overconfidence associated with Felix Felicis.  More than likely, Malfoy would be the same git to Harry that he had always been.

And he was, no doubt, destined to be a defensive and difficult patient.  

Harry remembered Malfoy’s whinging in Pomfrey’s office with a little laugh as he poured himself a generous, and much needed, glass of wine.

Addictions, he’d learned, were generally a physical manifestation of an underlying emotional issue.  No doubt, Malfoy had a lot of issues to work through and Harry suspected, as with many recent addicts at St Mungos, that most of these were going to stem from the war.  Malfoy had witnessed and partaken in countless acts of violence, not to mention _lived_ with Voldemort in his home.

Harry had his own share of issues after the War, namely a problem with rage, and had worked with Healer McClintock as a patient himself before deciding to change his career path from Auror, which only fueled his rage, to Healer, where he could do what McClintock and so many others were doing and continue to help people in need. 

….

….

….

For the next three days, Harry, Susan and Baddock helped Malfoy through a very nasty de-tox.  Malfoy trembled and vomited, shook and shouted and swore, screamed and pleaded and begged for his Potion, for his death, and for help.

Harry tried his best to keep Malfoy comfortable with Sleeping Charms and Pain Relief Spells, but there was only so much he could do to alleviate the pain of withdrawal.  Malfoy had to go through it. Not only that, but experiencing it was an important part of the recovery process.  Patients were able to see that they lived through the agony without their drug of choice and learn that the pain of it was not something they ever wanted to go through again.

At least, that was what Healers hoped.

On one particularly difficult night, Malfoy had been in a state of semi-delirium.  He was crying uncontrollably and clenching his teeth and his fists and, based on the fragmented words that he’d managed to utter, Harry felt certain that he was having flashbacks to the war.

Thankfully, the wizard’s wand had been seized upon his arrival, because when he began to choke out words like “Crucio,” Harry started to fear for his own safety.

Moments after he’d performed the Cruciatus Curse on an imaginary someone, Malfoy had buried his head in his clenched fists and wept, thrashing about on the bed and saying, “I’m sorry,” over and over again.

Wanting to comfort him, Harry was oddly reminded of his godson, Teddy, and, for some strange reason, Harry felt compelled to transfigure one of Malfoy’s pillows into a large, plush, gray gorilla.  He had never been all that good at Transfiguration, so the gorilla still had the delicate floral print of the hospital bed-sheets, but the toy was soft and clutch-able and sometimes patients liked to hold onto things that were comforting and reminded them of the safety of childhood.

“Here.” Harry held out the stuffed gorilla for Malfoy to take. Malfoy paused, seeming to regain a brief moment of lucidity.  He glanced up from his hands, his face gaunt, red and tear-stained. His eyes, weary and wild, fixed on the proffered toy.

Feeling a bit foolish, Harry was about to Transfigure it back into a pillow, when Malfoy wiped a hand across his face and sniffled.

“Er—” Harry started.

Ignoring Harry completely, the blondreached out a hand and took the stuffed gorilla.  He tilted his head and regarded it curiously, then flipped it over so he could see the gorilla’s face.  Noticing its goofy-looking mug and one-toothed grin, Malfoy actually cracked a tiny, sad-looking smile.  Then, sighing deeply, he wrapped his arms tightly around the toy and rolled over onto his side.

….

….

….

Patients in the Magical Addictions and Rehabilitation clinic of St Mungos typically followed a six-week program that consisted of one-on-one talk therapy, group therapy, art and music therapy and a regimented diet that was closely inspected to ensure that patients were receiving an appropriate amount of nutrients for their health. Potion-supplements were typically not given to patients with a history of overdose.  Patients’ livers were treated with a series of ongoing healing spells to try and undo damage that had been done over long periods of abuse.  It was really an incredible spell, one that had only been invented about ten years prior and could have worked wonders in the Muggle world, but could still only be administered to patients magically, and thus, remained a Wizarding World secret despite its potential benefits, like so many other things.

Harry had done a rotation in the Rehab clinic in the past and felt that he was well-suited to talk therapy.  He tended to understand patients with addictions, though he’d never specifically had an addiction to anything physical.  He knew what it was like to feel out of control, though, and to feel as though one needed something in one’s life in order to function, in order to hide and defend oneself.  He got it.  And he felt like he was making a difference when he was able to help others.

But Malfoy.  Merlin, _almighty_.  The spoiled git had already skipped his first session of group therapy.  If he missed another, he’d be put on probation.  A third, and he’d be out of the program and out of a job.  Harry shook his head and made a note of the missed session in Malfoy’s file.

While it made sense—Draco Malfoy suffering an addiction—it just boggled Harry’s mind.  And it wasn’t just the fact that Malfoy had an addiction that boggled Harry’s mind, but it was also _what_ he was addicted to.

Felix Felicis?

It was an incredibly dangerous, not to mention greedy and selfish, addiction.  Fitting, really, Harry thought with a scowl.  Malfoy always did have to have the best of everything. 

But how had it started?  Perhaps his bout of bad luck after the war made him nostalgic for his days of being the richest and snobbiest student at Hogwarts?

Harry wasn’t sure.  But he did know that it wasn’t fair of him to approach this situation by immediately placing judgment on Malfoy and his addiction.  

But it was _Draco Malfoy_. He just couldn’t seem to help it.

Harry would try to approach Malfoy’s case with an open mind.  He really would.

….

….

….

“Good morning, Professor Malfoy.”  Harry had knocked twice on the door and entered when he’d gotten no response.  Malfoy was sitting up in his bed, cross-legged, and looking more like a sullen fourteen year-old boy than the handsome well-to-do bloke he’d appeared to be at the anniversary.  A flowery arm hung off the bottom of the bed where Harry assumed the gorilla toy had ended up.

Malfoy had his head propped up on one fist and his elbows balanced on his knees as he turned the pages in a large photo album.  His mum had dropped off a ridiculously large gift basket for him earlier that day.  Harry had to inspect each item to be sure that it wasn’t harboring anything that could cause potential harm to Malfoy’s recovery.

Narcissa and her house-elf had brought the photo album, various chocolates and sweets (some of which Harry was forced to toss due to serotonin-boosting additives that were not legal in Britain), a bottle of sparkling water,  a Quentin Ross’ 8-Color Quill Set, a green light orb that resembled a lava lamp and books #4-7 of the _Bobby the Beater_ children’s mystery novel series— book number four, _China Smackdown!,_ book number five, _A Russian Elf-Air,_ book number six, _Bulgarian Bludger Bludgeoned_ and book number seven, _The Snitch from the South._

Curious about the odd addition, Harry had flipped through these to make sure they weren’t hollowed out and filled with illegal items but, surprisingly, they appeared to be nothing more than spell and potion-free books written for a pre-teen boy audience.

“Don’t.” Malfoy’s hair was tangled, hanging in his face and he hadn’t looked up.  He turned another page and the sheen, sticky photo-coverings crackled as he pulled.

“Don’t . . . ?” Harry pulled out his wand to run a quick series of diagnostics to ensure that Malfoy had remained stabilized.

“Don’t call me Professor Malfoy.”

Harry frowned.  “Um, okay.  I thought—” he hesitated, remembering that the conversation had likely happened while Malfoy was using. “What would you like me to call you, then?”

Malfoy looked up with scowl, still not meeting Harry’s gaze.  “I would like it, _Potter_ ,” he spat his name, “if you didn’t call me anything at all.”

“Mister Malfoy—”

“Ah-no! Not,” Malfoy winced and held up a hand. “Just. Stop, Potter. Just-call me Malfoy, if you must.”  He swallowed and looked back at the photo album.  “No need for false and patronizing pretenses.”

Harry nodded and spread his hands out.  “Okay, fine. Malfoy, then. May I ask why you dropped the ‘Professor’?”

Malfoy snorted rudely, then crossed his arms and leaned back against the bed.  “Sure. That’s the funny thing about free will, Potter.  You can do whatever you want.”

Sensing that Malfoy wasn’t going to answer, Harry avoided the temptation of moving closer to get a look at the photo album and instead set a cup of pumpkin juice on Malfoy’s bedside table and began casting the diagnostic spells.

Malfoy scowled and rolled his eyes the entire time, but didn’t say anything else, obliging when he was told to raise and lower his arms and to turn this way and that, so Harry figured he wouldn’t press the issue.  It wasn’t that important, anyway.  It was likely that Malfoy just wanted to regain some sense of normalcy, as well as refuse to allow Harry control of the situation.  That was normal.  Harry could understand that.

“By the way, group session is at 3:00,” Harry said, turning to leave.  “See to it that you’re there this time.”

Malfoy grumbled a response and Harry shut the door behind him.

….

….

….

Group sessions always made Harry feel a bit awkward.  They were supposed to encourage camaraderie amongst patients and help others to learn and understand more about their own recovery process by witnessing others’ struggles and successes.

However, group sessions always left Harry feeling as exposed as his patients likely did.  Uneasy patients often shot Harry’s own questions back at him and, unable to resist a challenge, he usually tried to answer them, just because he hated doing it so much.

Honesty with oneself wasn’t one of those things that got easier over time.

But, as for building camaraderie, group session was fairly effective in doing so.  Harry got to know and care about his patients and they got to know and care about each other, once they opened themselves up enough to allow others in and allow themselves to heal.

This group session consisted of several alcoholic patients, a young girl named Chelsea who had been in the rehab clinic before for addiction to a Potion called Loofsnaarp, or “Loof,’ for short, a man Harry remembered from Hogwarts as an older Ravenclaw, who was hooked on a variety of uppers,  and a rather zippy fellow named Clark who had an addiction to Self-Modified Cheering Charms.  Addiction to charms was one of the more difficult addictions to treat since a Wizard need only have his wand to access his high.

It was 3:07 and Marsha, an older woman with a kindly and weather-worn face was describing her rock-bottom experience when Malfoy, wearing a black silk robe tied over the same hospital gown he’d had on for days, and a pair of scratchy hospital slip-proof socks, shuffled into the room.  He was hunched slightly with his hands wrapped tightly around his stomach, a steaming, Falmouth Falcons traveling mug clutched in one.  His hair had been pulled back into a sloppy, snarled lump and he was wearing his glasses.

Necessity, then.

“Nice of you to join us, Malfoy,” Harry greeted him coolly.  Malfoy ignored him and crawled into an empty armchair, pulling his knees up and tucking them underneath himself.

When Malfoy chose to focus on sipping from his mug instead of looking at a single person in the group, Harry turned away from him and gestured for Marsha to continue.  Marsha shot Malfoy an uneasy look when his silk robe sleeve slipped to his elbow, revealing the Dark Mark, as stark and livid black as if Voldemort had just burned it into the blond’s flesh that morning.

Noticing her staring, Malfoy quickly pulled the sleeve to his wrist and gripped the fabric tightly in his fist.  His cheeks and ears turned a deep shade of pink.  Harry could see that his hands were trembling.

Marsha began speaking, then, and Harry and the others turned their attention back to the woman.  They offered her supportive applause when she finished her story and Harry gave her a Valour Sticker to add to the chart on the back of her Recovery Journal.

The only person who didn’t clap was the platinum blond professor.  He’d fallen asleep, empty mug hanging loosely from his hands.

….

….

….

“Hey,” Harry poked Malfoy on the back and he sucked in a deep, startled breath, blinking rapidly.  “Get up.”

Malfoy relaxed back and yawned, punctuating the action with little smacky post-nap mouth sounds like a five year old.  Then he wrinkled his nose up.  “Bluegh.”  More smacky sounds.  Harry was reminded of the stirring noises made by yellow macaroni and cheese product from the blue box that he used to cook for the Dursleys. “Kah.”  Malfoy lifted the mug up to his mouth and tried to sip from it, taking in a mouthful of empty air, instead.

Malfoy swallowed anyway, Harry noticed, likely trying to play it cool.  He was obviously unaware that the mug had been lying completely on its side for twenty minutes and would have surely spilled if there had been anything left in it.

“Wake up,” Harry snapped.  Malfoy turned bleary eyes toward him and frowned.

“I am.” Malfoy yawned again, patting his mouth with his hand. “Obviously.”

“This is the second session you’ve missed.  The first one, you slept through.  The second one, you came to the room, but you still slept through.  Malfoy, you’re officially on probation.  You miss one more session or break any other clinic rule, you’re out of here, I notify McGonagall, and your job is gone.”

“God, I didn’t mean to, you sanctimonious shite—”

“ _Watch it—”_

“Ship.  Shipbuilder.”  Malfoy scowled and crossed his arms.  “Merlin, you’re not even going to let me curse?  For God’s sakes, Potter.  I fell asleep.   _I’m sick_.”

“The other patients—”

“Are absolute losers, Potter. Even you can’t deny that.”

“The other patients are sick, too, Malfoy, yet they’ve still managed to attend every session, on time and fully conscious.”

Harry watched as the blond fiddled with the lid of his mug.  “So.  Probation, is it?”

“Yes.”

“And what does that mean?”

“That means that if you mess up one more time, you are out of here.”  Harry was hoping his words would scare Malfoy into positive action and not provoke him into trying to challenge Harry.

“So,” he drawled, sleepy grey eyes finally meeting Harry’s, “in other words, it means nothing.  Three strikes and I’m out, I get that.  But Probation doesn’t actually mean anything new?”

Harry frowned.  “Um.  No, I guess not.  Not really.”

“I see.”  Malfoy smiled up at Harry.  “It won’t happen again, _Healer Potter_.”

“If it does—”

“My word is my bond,” Malfoy said.  “Have you ever known me to lie?”

With that, Malfoy peeled himself out of the chair, stretched like a cat and began shuffling back to his room.  Malfoy stumbled once—those slip-proof socks were always just a bit too grippy, in Harry’s opinion—and continued down the corridor.

….

….

….

“You are required to keep a Recovery Journal,” Harry said during their first one-on-one meeting.  Malfoy was predictably silent throughout the entire session as Harry explained to him more about the ins and outs and rules of the clinic.  “It is anonymous, unless you should wish for me to read it, but you are required to write in it at least once a day.”

Malfoy reached forward and took the little parchment-bound book by the cover, allowing the pages to dangle opened gracelessly in front of him.

“Also, it is charmed to sense if you have written anything indicating harm to yourself or to others.  Only then would it notify me.”

Rolling his eyes Malfoy prodded at the empty sticker chart on the back of the book.  “I would really like to fill this up,” he said, speaking for the first time in a half an hour.

Harry couldn’t tell if Malfoy was being facetious or not, so he just ignored the remark and continued.

“What’s this?” Malfoy had leaned forward and grabbed something off of Harry’s desk.  Resisting the urge to blast it out of his hands, Harry reminded himself to stay calm and choose his battles.

“What’s what?” he asked through gritted teeth, eyeing Malfoy’s tightly clenched fist warily.

Malfoy opened up his hand.  Sitting on his palm was the Rubik’s Cube that Arthur had given to him a few birthdays ago.  It was one of the strange possessions that seemed to make it into transition from temporary office to temporary office without getting the axe.  Included in that short list were two framed wizarding photos of himself, Ron and Hermione and a picture of Harry and his parents that Hagrid had given to him years ago.  These items were placed on the interim desk with the Rubik’s cube, a self-watering plant from Neville and Ginny and a deck of playing cards with a picture of a polar bear wearing sunglasses on the back from Dudley.  Harry wasn’t particularly sure why he kept something from Dudley close at hand. He told himself it was simply because non-magical playing cards were a useful thing to have around.

Malfoy began to tap at the Rubik’s cube with his pointer finger as though it were a wand.  Harry swore he could see him mouthing the words “Revelio.” But, as Malfoy could not actually do wandless magic, this motion was useless and the scrambled up color cube with one solid side of greens, remained as such in Malfoy’s hand.

“What does this do?” he asked, squinting at it.  Catching on quickly, Malfoy began to twist the cubes.

“No!”

Malfoy paused with a mischievous grin. “Why not?” He began tossing the cube casually up into the air and catching it.

“Um,” feeling flustered, Harry finally pulled out his wand and Accioed the toy back. “Because.  You’re going to mess it all up.”  Harry set the Rubik’s cube back on his desk, a bit closer to himself this time.

“Whatever.”

“Anyway,” Harry said, “it’s time you stop beating round the bush and start answering some tough questions about how you came to be addicted to Felix Felicis in the first place.”

“Not an addiction,” Malfoy mumbled, picking at invisible lint on his sleeve.  He’d managed to dress himself in a mint green Muggle sweater and khakis, looking every bit the professional that McGonagall insisted he was.

“Oh, come off it, Malfoy.  If it’s an not an addiction, then what is it?”

“It’s just something I do.  You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.”

“I’d rather not, if it’s all the same to you.”

“Well, it isn’t all the same to me,” Harry snapped.  “Nor should it be all the same to you.  I sign your papers at the end of all this, you know.  If I don’t say you’re recovered, then you aren’t.  McGonagall takes you back only upon _successful_ completion of the program.  This isn’t a spa or a six-week getaway.  If you want your recovery, you need to work for it.”

“I don’t need to recover if I don’t have an addiction,” Malfoy pointed out, calm as can be.  “Why don’t you write that in your little file you’re keeping on me, there.” He nodded towards the folder of information spread out before Harry.  

“The first step toward—”

“Toward recovery is admitting you have a problem,” he interrupted in a singsong voice.  “Spare me, Potter.  I’ve heard it before.”

“Then—”

“The problem _here_ is that there is no problem.”  Malfoy raised his chin just slightly.

“Oh, no?”

“No.” He leaned back in the chair and crossed his arms with a smug look on his face.  “And now that we’ve established that, why don’t you let me out of here _today_ so that I can get back to my students who are depending on me to help them to pass their OWLS and NEWTS and University entrance exams?”

Ignoring his question, Harry continued to probe.  “So, why are you here?”

“I was attacked.”

“No, why are you _here_? In the Rehabilitation clinic?”

“I’m going to vote on _conspiracy_.”  His eyes lit up as he said it.

“Conspiracy?” Harry repeated in a doubtful voice.

“That’s right, Potter.”  His left hand trembled violently and he jerked back both of his hands and sat on them.  “Conspiracy.”  Malfoy shrugged his shoulders as though he were still trying to animate the conversation with the movement of his hands.

“Explain this to me, Malfoy,” Harry picked up a quill and a paper from Malfoy’s file.  “I’d love to hear your theory.”

“Well, you see,” he began.  “I may have made a bit of a bad deal you see, and,” his right hand crept out from underneath him and began waving dramatically in the air, “and this, bloke he . . . he demanded I return something to him and when I didn’t,” Malfoy tapped three times on the arm of his chair, “he sent his men after me and they attacked me, robbed me and _poisoned me_ , Potter.”

“With Felix Felicis.”

“Yes.”

“They decided to give you a luck potion in an attempt to hurt you.”

“Yes.”

“Why not use an actual poison?”

Malfoy widened his eyes.  “Too obvious, you see?  Then it wouldn’t look like I had an addiction.  Yes, see!  I wouldn’t be locked up in here, out of their hair for six weeks so they could go back for the rest of—” he began to grow more and more excited as if he couldn’t believe what a great story he had come up with.

“And the three days of withdrawal?”

“I’d ingested a Calming Draught earlier in the day.  It was a bad combination.”  His eyes lit up.  “Which, I’m sure, the criminals knew, and chose Felix for just that reason.”

Harry just stared at the man. He couldn’t believe he had the guts—or stupidity—to try and make believe he had been poisoned after three days of begging for Felix Felicis to stop the pain.

“This is the story you’d like me to relay to McGonagall.”

“ _Yes.”_

“So you can go back to work and continue stealing from the one woman who gave you a chance after the War? Continue to betray her trust in you and waste precious resources on yourself, is that it?”

Malfoy looked taken aback and his eyes dropped.  “I would never steal from her,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.  He shook his head softly then raised his eyes back up to Harry, glaring.  “How dare you?” he hissed.  “You think—you think that just because I’m a—just because of my past—that I would do that to her?  McGonagall trusts me.  She _knows_ I would never—”

“Save it, Malfoy.”  Harry pulled out a sheet from the file and passed it to him.  Malfoy took the sheet in trembling hands, his ghostly ill pallor growing even whiter.

Malfoy swallowed.  “What’s this?” he asked, his voice cracking slightly.  He peered at the paper through his glasses and adjusted them on his nose in a nervous gesture, as if to see better, though Harry guessed he was just stalling for time.

“The payroll scrolls from Hogwarts.” Harry said.  He knew Malfoy was currently looking at a list of orders with the repeated “D. Malfoy” signature scrawled after each.  His eyes roved over the paper, from the top to the bottom which indicated that the funds came from the student Potion stock supply.  “Well?” Harry said finally.  Something in his gut made him feel guilty as he did it, knowing how terrible Malfoy was feeling, being faced with the impact of what he had done.

Malfoy looked sick.  “I was going to pay it back,” he murmured.  Then, “I _am_.  I am going to pay it back.”  Suddenly,  he threw the paper onto Harry’s desk.  “This is absolute bullshite.  I am a Potions _Master_ , Potter.  It is expected that I have things on hand that go above and beyond the call of classroom needs.”

“Malfoy—”

“Do you think everything Snape had in his storeroom was on the up and up, Potter?”  Malfoy asked, hands trembling more violently than ever, rivaling the shake of his own voice, which was rising in pitch and growing hysterical.  “Well, let me tell you.  I’d been in his storeroom hundreds of times and it _wasn’t._ In fact, I’m sure you and your little crew had broken into there once or twice, if I’m not mistaken, to steal Boomslang Skin.  Isn’t that right?”

“That’s just it, Malfoy,” Harry sighed.  “None of the items ordered here were found in the storeroom.  In fact, everything used to manufacture Felix Felicis was missing and, according to Preston Bancroft, it has been for a while.”

“Bancroft,” Mafoy said, looking distraught and hooking his two index fingers together.

“The Seventh Year—”

“I know who bloody Bancroft is,” Malfoy growled.  His eyes were shadowed and strangely misty.  In a softer voice he said, “He’s bloody brilliant at Potions.”

“Fairly observant, too,” Harry added, his tone regretful.

Malfoy dropped his head into his hands.  Harry could hear him sniff and wondered if he was crying.  Sure, he’d wailed during detox, but Magical detox was so harsh it would have reduced even Voldemort to a quivering mess.  Harry almost laughed aloud at the idea, but Malfoy’s apparent distress was enough to keep him straight.

“You need to face facts, Malfoy, and stop running from the truth,” Harry said, his voice soft.  “You have an addiction.  You’ve stolen from Hogwarts to support it.  And you owe a lot of people a lot of—”

“I never stole from her,” Malfoy said helplessly, his voice thick.

“Denying it—”

Malfoy’s head shot up and his eyes were puffy and red.  “Listen here, Potter.” He gripped his hands tightly along the worn oak armrests of the chair.  “I’ve changed.  Unlike you and everyone else, McGonagall could see that.  She gave me a chance! Even after I— she’s the only one who ever—” his voice caught and he coughed, blinking rapidly, then squeezing his eyes shut.  “I would never do something like that to her.”

Harry was quiet for a moment and resisted handing Malfoy a tissue.  He knew how embarrassing it was when the last thing you wanted was for someone to notice that you were crying and then draw attention to it by holding out a tissue like your own white flag of defeat.  Malfoy wouldn’t appreciate it.

And, God, Harry’s heart just ached for him, arse that he was, sitting in that chair and having to face up to what he had done.  Addicts often stole from and abused those closest to them.  Harry never would have thought of Malfoy and McGonagall’s relationship being anything more than a simple working camaraderie, but after witnessing Malfoy’s defense of himself and of her, he believed that Malfoy never had wanted to hurt the woman, and being faced with the fact that he _had_ was too overwhelmingly shameful for him.

“I believe that you’d never want to do something like that to her.”

Malfoy grew suddenly cold, his face hardening.  He twisted his mouth up into a sneer.  “No, you don’t,” he spat, jumping up from his chair.  “You don’t believe a word I’ve said about anything.  You think I’m a Potions addict, for Merlin’s sakes!”

“You—”

“Like them. _”_ He pointed at the door in the direction of where the group therapy session had taken place.  “Those pathetic lowlifes.”

“Your addiction of choice is different,” Harry stood and rose to meet Malfoy, “but I think you’ll find you have more in common with those—pathetic lowlifes, as you like to call them—than you think you do.”

“Well, you’re a bigger idiot than I thought, Potter, if you believe that.”

Harry could feel his own rage rising up within him and had a brief mental vision of slamming Malfoy up against the wall by his collar and just knocking some damn sense into him.  And shutting up his stupid mouth with—

“Why don’t you use fucking magic and set that stupid toy to rights?”  Before Harry could figure out that he was talking about his Rubik’s cube, Malfoy had snatched up his Recovery Journal and left.

….

….

….

Susan Bones was able to come round for a bit to help Harry out during Creative Therapy, which, admittedly, was not his strongest suit.  Generally, Healer McClintock, who had a smidgeon of artistic talent, led the self-expression sessions, but today he had taken a day off to tend to family business and Harry was on his own.

Susan, at least, had a pretty singing voice and little shame.  She related well with the patients and shared her own story of her struggles with overeating.  Then she demonstrated how music therapy could be both calming and entertaining or, at the very least, was good for a laugh—and there were definitely too few laughs around the clinic these days.

Susan had unlocked the cabinet of instruments—several acoustic guitars, a keyboard, a coutriment, which was like a magical version of xylophone whose musical notes responded to both mallet pressure and blowing, creating a very tribal-esque harmony, a few broken recorder pieces that reminded Harry of Dudley’s Primary School concerts, a fish and several maracas made from gourds.

Susan picked up the guitar and handed a maraca to Joe, the Ravenclaw, and the fish to Clark, telling them to keep the beat.  They exchanged amused glances and Harry noticed Malfoy lift his chin slightly and look down the tip of his nose to inspect the fish.

Susan then began strumming the same chord over and over again and singing:

“Healer Bones, a lover of treats

Healer Bones, an eater of sweets,

I’d indulge in all chocolates, puddings and pies

And lament when I’d find extra weight on my thighs”

The patients snickered and Susan continued.

“Healer Bones, a lover of treats

Healer Bones, an eater of sweets

The boys used to laugh and they’d all called me names

“Can’t See Her Bones” and something . . . that rhymes with names”

At this point, Clark began furiously scratching the stick over the fish’s rippled gills and Joe began shaking out a beat.  Marsha was in hysterics and Harry couldn’t resist sneaking a glance at Malfoy, whom he _knew_ had used to call Susan “Can’t See Her Bones,” and found him staring at Susan with a sort of impressed awe—eyebrows raised, eyes crinkled just slightly, lips pressed tightly together.

She looked over at Malfoy and winked.  He responded with a sort of sheepish shrug and, to Harry’s absolute shock, joined in singing on the next round of “Healer Bones, a lover of treats.”

After Susan had finished the demonstration, she helped the patients pick out instruments and cast optional sound filtering spells on them, so that only they could hear their own music.  Most of the patients wanted to play with the instruments, Malfoy included, who picked up an acoustic guitar and took it to the corner of the room where he faced the window, plucking away.  A few students refused to do the activity.  The Loof addict, Chelsea, drew away from the others and opted to pull out her Recovery Journal.

Harry crouched down beside her and saw that she was sketching.  Quite well, actually.  “Not interested in music, Chels?”

She shrugged and tucked a loose strand of brown hair behind her ear.  “It’ll never be quite the same,” she murmured.  “You know?”

Harry didn’t know, not really, and hadn’t had much experience with treating Loof addicts, but he knew that a part of the Loofsnaark high was that it made everything—colors, sounds, music, the world—more intense and interesting and beautiful.  Recovering patients were often withdrawn and depressed, and expressed deep feelings of loss, as if the world would never be the same again.

“Tell me,” Harry said, and slouched down beside her.  

She gave an uneasy laugh and shook her head.  Then she pointed to her sketch-pad.  “Healer Potter, will you charm this for me?”

“What kind of charm?”  He hoped she wasn’t about to trick him into doing something against code.

“Just a visual charm,” she said softly.  The lilt of her voice reminded Harry a bit of Luna.  “It’s called “Oratos Defacto.”

Not sure if he was making a mistake, Harry raised his wand and uttered the charm, directing the spell at the journal.  Expecting the journal to explode into smithereens or catch fire, he was shocked when dazzling colors and auras filled every corner of the abstract sketch she had created.  It had been a drawing of the room, but suddenly it appeared to be so much more.  The people in the drawing glowed, but it was more than that.  It was as if Harry could see Chelsea’s own impression of their personalities.  The images seemed to float off of the paper, animated in their stillness.  He could sense Susan’s boisterous buoyant nature, the corner with Clark and the fish seemed to vibrate on it’s own wavelength to the point that Harry could swear he was hearing it, though he wasn’t.  Then he noticed that Chelsea’s own representation of herself seemed doubled— it was there on one side of the room and then a similar melancholy coolness was mirrored on the other side.  

It wasn’t her though.  It was Malfoy.  And for some reason, Chelsea found something relatable in him, though he hadn’t shared a single word in any of the group sessions.

“Chelsea, this is incredible.”

Chelsea’s eyes were wide and he could see the reflection of the visual spell in her dark irises.  “It’s the closest thing,” her voice was breathless and she reached a hand forward and touched the page.  “This is what everything is like on Loof.  So much more.”

Sensing that this was not a healthy exercise for Chelsea, Harry quickly ended the charm.  Chelsea winced slightly then stared, dejected, at the black and white sketch of the room and its occupants, which had returned to normal.

“It must be difficult, adjusting to life without it,” Harry offered.

Chelsea just shook her head with a sad smile and resumed sketching.  Harry continued around the room, checking in on each patient and entering their invisible sound bubble when permitted.

When he got to Malfoy, he could see that the blond was laughing in silent hysterics.  Curious, Harry waved from the side of the bubble.  Malfoy’s eyes lit up and he motioned for Harry to come in.

Weird, thought Harry.  He usually doesn’t look so pleased to see me.

Well, except for at the Battle Anniversary, but then he’d been high . . . or lucky . .  or something.

Scratching his head, Harry ducked into the bubble to catch the end of Malfoy’s laughter.

“I’m happy to see you’re taking this exercise seriously, Malfoy,” Harry said, dropping beside him and crossing his legs.  Malfoy stretched his legs out for a moment and kicked Harry when he did.

“Sorry,” Harry said automatically, even though it wasn’t his fault.

Malfoy ignored him and began strumming on the guitar, playing out actual chords.

“You play the guitar?” Harry asked, surprised.

“I am a musical composer and lyricist,” Malfoy sniffed.

“Right,” said Harry. “Why weren’t you in Flitwick’s choir?”

“Ha!” he scoffed so loudly Harry jumped and Malfoy began coughing.  It sounded as though he had dislodged something important in his chest.  “Flitwick’s choir,” he rasped.  “What a joke.”

“Alright,” said Harry.  “Let’s hear it.”

Malfoy continued strumming what sounded like a very familiar tune.  And then he began to sing.

“Weasley was born in a bin,” he sang. 

Harry froze.

 Malfoy looked quickly at Harry to gauge his reaction before looking back at the guitar.  “He always let’s the quaffle in.  That’s why the Slytherins all sing, Weasley is our king!”

Patience thinning fast, Harry reached out and covered Malfoy’s hand in his own, tightening his fingers around the pale skin and slowly, but forcefully, removing his hand front the instrument.  “Don’t,” Harry warned.  “That is my family.  Do not go there.”

“Temper, temper.” Malfoy waggled his eyebrows.  “Strike a _chord_ there, did I Potter?”

“I like to believe you’ve changed, Malfoy.  And that you won’t resort to attacking others when you’re feeling boxed in.”

“Well,” he drawled.  “I like to believe so, too.  And that’s why I wanted to play you something a bit more complimentary.”  He shook off Harry’s hand, adjusted his grasp on the guitar and began to play something a bit twangy, that also sounded oddly familiar.

“His eyes are as green as a fresh pickled toad, his hair is as dark as a chalkboard,”  Malfoy was looking right at Harry this time as he sang and Harry felt something flip-flop in his chest as he did.  “He’s really diviiiiiiine!” Malfoy held the note at as Harry, embarrassed for himself all over again, tried to stop him by grabbing his hand on the guitar again.  He did it with too much force, though, and ended up knocking Malfoy back and pinning him on the floor with the guitar between them.

“Stop!”

“Our hero,” Malfoy wailed, grinning widely, “who conquered the Dark Lord!”  Reaching up between them, Malfoy gave the guitar one last, punctuating twang, before throwing his head back and laughing.

Flustered, Harry stuttered, “You didn’t even write that!  Ginny Weasley did!”

Malfoy paused in his laughing to look affronted.  “The hell she did!   _I_ wrote that.”

Realizing the compromising nature of their position, Harry quickly scrambled off of Malfoy and the guitar and scooted back a few safe feet.  “That was a Valentine from her!”

“You think Ginny _Weasley_ wrote that your hair was the color of a chalkboard?  As a love poem?  You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“It was from her!”  Harry couldn’t even believe they were having this conversation, but was so shocked that he just couldn’t think straight.  He felt himself getting sucked into the usual back-and-forth bickering he’d always done with his rival.  “She was there when I got it!”

“Right!” Malfoy sat up, his eyes wild.  “She ran away in embarrassment!  I can’t believe you didn’t know that I wrote that.” He frowned.  “I think I’m a bit hurt.  I really thought my creative touches were all over that one.”

“Why in the hell would you have written me a Valentine?” Harry yelled.

Harry noticed that Malfoy’s cheeks had gone bright red and he was mumbling something.

“Sorry?” Harry asked, rudely.

The blond looked up at him and rolled his eyes dramatically. “Professor Lockhart made me write all the Valentine poems during detention.  He seemed to think it’d be fun for me, or something.”

“But Ginny—”

“Ordered one for you.  And I wrote it.  And some little dwarf sang it.   And not the way it was written, mind you, because I’m sure you heard the way that I held out the word ‘divine’ and also ‘hero’ which the little wanker didn’t do even though I—”

p>

  

“Just be quiet for a second.”  Harry waved his hands around trying to make sense of things.  “You’re telling me that you actually wrote that ridiculous song?”

Malfoy smirked. “Yes, I did.  How about a little recognition?”

Unable to help himself, Harry burst out laughing.  Harry couldn’t believe Ginny had never told him that.  Though, when he thought about it now, he supposed it made sense.  She was probably so humiliated that the poem turned out as wretched as it had that she never wanted to speak of it.

When he had finally calmed down and Malfoy looked inordinately proud of himself, Harry asked, “So, have you actually taken this assignment seriously?”

Malfoy shrugged, the smile fading off his face.

“I think this would be a really good outlet for you, Malfoy,” said Harry, missing Malfoy’s smile almost immediately and wanting it back.  “You seem to have some talent for it, anyway,” Harry joked.

Malfoy’s smile had not returned, though, as Harry had hoped.  Instead, he stared vacantly out the window, watching as the rain spiraled in rivulets down the warped glass panes.  

“Malfoy?” Harry prompted.

Malfoy shook his head, softly.  His voice was barely more than a whisper.  “I don’t have it in me.”

“What do you mean?” asked Harry.

“I mean—”  His pale eyebrows drew together over his glasses.  He reached up a hand and pulled them off, scrubbing at his eyes with his other hand.  He inhaled sharply and then sighed deeply. “I don’t know what I mean.” Without warning, Malfoy climbed to his feet, stepped over the guitar and around Harry and walked from the room, his arms crossed tightly over his chest.

….

….

....


	2. Chapter 2

It had been two weeks in the program and Malfoy still hadn’t admitted to having an addiction or even to using Felix Felicis.  He stuck with his story—despite it being disproved several times over— that he had been poisoned.  In group therapy sessions he remained silent, offering nothing but occasional mocking laughter at the other patients and, of course, at Harry.

Normally, at this point, Harry would have felt confident that recovery was not in the near future for Malfoy-that he was not ready, uncooperative, still lying . . . and yet, this just motivated him to try harder.

But trying harder with Malfoy generally just meant provoking Malfoy to the point where he started lashing out or bolted from the room.

“So, any progress with the Slytherin, yet?” Susan asked, handing Harry a cup of cafeteria coffee.

“Don’t ask,” he muttered, dumping sugar into the cup until it created a little floating mountain that slowly dissolved into the tepid liquid.

“I’ll take that as a ‘no?’”

“It’s like he’s completely delusional.  Every response he comes up with is so irrational, he must know I don’t believe him.”  Harry gave his coffee a few stirs with his wand.  “I mean, I’ve told him so a hundred times and he still insists he was poisoned.”

Susan tilted her head thoughtfully to the side and bit into a cracker.  “Maybe you’re approaching this wrong.”

“You’re definitely approaching it wrong.” 

“Hello, Baddock,” Harry said with an eye-roll.  He and Susan exchanged exasperated looks and then shoved over to make room for their fellow resident. “Well? Let’s hear it.”

“You say you’ve told him a hundred times that he’s lying?” Baddock asked, stealing one of Susan’s crackers and washing it down with a swig of Harry’s coffee.  

“Well,” Harry pointed out, “he is.”

“What he _is,”_  Baddock said, making a face at the super-sweet drink, “is a Slytherin. How thick are you, Potter?”

“I don’t know, Baddock,” Harry grit out.  “Why don’t you tell me?”

“Malcolm,” Susan said, warningly.

“Look,” Baddock sighed.  “Slytherins are expert liars.  In fact, they pride themselves on it.  If you’re sitting there, calling his bluff, all you’re doing is driving a wedge between the two of you.”

Harry tried to make sense of that.

“He’ll never trust you.”

“So,” said Harry slowly, “let me get this straight.  In order to get Malfoy to trust me, I have to pretend to believe his lies?”

Susan looked between the two of them, her interest piqued.  “Really?”

“Oh, for Merlin’s sakes,” Baddock smacked his hands on the table.  “Malfoy isn’t an idiot.  He’d see through your bullshite in ten seconds, Potter.”

“Forgive me,” said Harry, feeling a migraine coming on.  “I don’t get it.”

“Have you even listened to the story he’s tried to feed you?” Baddock asked.  “I mean, _really listened._  Because it seems like every time you mention it you say ‘something about criminals and aurors’ like you don’t really know what he’s talking about.”

“I don’t--.” Oh, God.  Did he do that? Harry looked at Susan for reassurance, but her mouth was twisted to the side.  “Susan?” 

“Well,” she said slowly, wincing, “Malcolm does have a point.”

“See?” Baddock leaned back in his chair, looking smug.

“But, I do listen to my patients!” Harry protested, guilt sinking to the pit of his stomach. Harry had been breaking the number one rule of counseling which was to _never judge_ _patients_.  To listen. Malfoy didn’t trust him.   “Dammit.”

Susan patted Harry on the shoulder.  “You do have a long history with him, Harry.  Maybe you ought to ask McClintock if he’ll take Malfoy’s case.”

Suddenly alert, Harry whipped up his head.  “What?  No!”

Susan jumped back. “I just thought that—”

“No.  Malfoy is MY case.  I’m going to fix him. I’m—“ Harry paused.   _Fix_ him?

“Fix him?” Baddock asked with a smirk.

“You know what I mean.”  Flustered, Harry stood up.  “I’m not giving up on him.  I haven’t been doing my part and I’m going to change.  I _will_ help him.”

Baddock stood and spread his arms out to the side.  “You’re welcome.”

“I’ll let you know later if thanks are in order,” Harry snapped.  

….

….

….

“So,” said Harry, after racing back to the clinic and pacing nervously for twenty minutes, anxiously anticipating his one-on-one session with Malfoy.  Malfoy was wearing his black robe again, pulled tightly over a maroon St Mungos’ hoodie with the hood up.

Since his completion of detox, Malfoy had had—as all patients do—good days and bad days and Harry could tell, based on the man’s wardrobe choice alone, that today was one of the bad days.  Malfoy tended to remain quiet and aloof on his bad days.  Harry hoped it wouldn’t keep them from making the progress he so desperately desired.

“So,” Malfoy repeated.

“So, er, just to review,” Harry paused and nervously cleared his throat.  Malfoy frowned at him.  “Tell me again why you’re here.”

The man let out a long, impatient sigh.  “This again? I _told_ you.  I was attacked.”

“By whom?”  It was the first time Harry had even asked the question.  He wanted to kick himself for his lack of compassion.  Malfoy legitimately _had_ been attacked, but Harry was so preoccupied with trying to rid him of his addiction that he’d completely glossed over the details.  

Malfoy blinked, taken aback.  “Um. By,” he sniffed, “I-I don’t really know, exactly.”

“You’d described them as criminals?” Harry tried to remember _something_ from their previous conversations.

“Well,” said Malfoy, “the only crime I’m aware of them committing was breaking into my house and attacking me.”

“They broke into your house?”

“Yes.”

“But you didn’t know them?”

Malfoy crossed his arms and gave Harry a suspicious glare.  “Why the sudden interest?”

Knowing that ‘Malcolm Baddock called me thick’ wouldn’t go over well, Harry chose to ignore the question.  He had that right, after all, though he rarely exercised it.  “Complete strangers?”

“I think I know who they were working for.”

“Joseph Gricharak?”

Malfoy looked up, his brow crinkled.  “Yes. How did you know that?”  Then he widened his eyes.  “Did they catch him?”

“No.”  Harry shook his head.  “There was never any evidence of an attack.”

“You don’t believe me.”  Malfoy deflated.

“That is not what I said.”

“You implied it,” Malfoy huffed.

“I didn’t.  I implied that there was no evidence, which could just as well mean that they covered their tracks.”

“Yeah,” said Malfoy. “So?”  He briefly placed his forehead in his palms and rubbed.  

“So—“

“Look,” Malfoy interrupted. “I know it isn’t snack-time around here or whatever, but is there _any chance_ I could get a cup of coffee?”

Harry blinked.  “Uh . . . “ The only coffee he currently had access to was the cooling cup of it on his desk with Malcolm Baddock’s backwash in it.  “You know what?  Here,” Harry pushed the disposable paper cup toward Malfoy.  “You can have mine.”

Malfoy looked unimpressed.

“I only took one sip,” Harry lied.  The man appeared to consider this for a moment, coming to the conclusion that the benefits outweighed the risks.  “Wait,” Harry stopped him from grabbing it.  “It’s probably cold.  Do you want me to heat it?”

“With your wand?” Malfoy asked, skeptically.  “No, thank you.  Mungos’ coffee tastes bad enough without the addition of your over-eager spell burns.”

“Right.”

Malfoy carefully took the coffee, his face a mixture of gratitude and suspicion.  “Thank you.”

“Taste it first,” Harry muttered.  “I doubt you’ll be thanking me long.”  Most people couldn’t stand the amount of sugar he added to his coffee.

Malfoy took a sip and shrugged.  “It’s fine.”  He then tilted the cup back and took several long swallows.  When he lowered the cup, Harry noticed that his eyes looked a bit puffy and wondered if he’d been crying earlier.

“Are you okay?” Harry asked before he could stop himself.

“Am I okay?” Malfoy repeated slowly, his mouth turned up in grim amusement.  “No.  No, Potter.  I’m not ‘okay.’  I’m about as far from ‘okay’ as, as . . . “ he shook his head, quickly losing energy to speak.  “I don’t even know.”  Suddenly, Malfoy dropped his head in his hands and let out a frustrated sound of disgust.  “Merlin, I can’t even _talk_ anymore.  I can’t _think!”_

Sly as could be, Harry picked up his quill and began to record what Malfoy was saying.  He couldn’t believe it.  They were getting somewhere!  Baddock had been right . . . Harry owed him . . . something really nice.  The mixed nuts basket from the Mungos gift shop, maybe.  He’d always said how good it looked.

“You can’t think?”

“No!”  Malfoy snapped.  “I can’t—” He sighed and threw his head back.  “ _Words_ , Potter. They don’t come to me!  I used to be so . . . so . . .”

“Loquacious?” Harry offered, remembering the word from when Hermione used to force Harry and Ron to take, and subsequently fail, pop vocabulary quizzes at lunch.

“Fuck.”  Malfoy’s face was screwed up.  “Yeah.  Loquacious.”

“And now you’re not . . .”

Malfoy just looked at him, wide-eyed.  “You haven’t _noticed_?”

“Noticed?”

“In group!”  Malfoy was wringing his hands together.  “I-I can’t even say anything.”

Harry paused.  “Are you saying that you haven’t spoken in group because you _can’t?”_

_“Yes.”_

“I thought you were just being stubborn.”  

Malfoy gave him a dirty look and dragged his hands through his snarled hair.  “When,” he spoke slowly, “have you _ever_ known me to keep my mouth shut about anything?”

Well, he had a point there.  All throughout their time at Hogwarts, if Malfoy didn’t like a lecture or a professor or a student he always had something rude and nasty to say.  If he ever kept quiet it was only for a few moments of derisive laughter before picking right back up again with the diatribe.  “Never,” Harry admitted.

Malfoy picked up the coffee and took several more pulls, draining it, and then set down the empty cup on Harry’s desk.  His eyes were wide in a way that  showed that he perceived  his inability to speak as traumatic and distressing.

“And this worries you?” Harry guessed.

Malfoy just closed his eyes and pressed his lips together for a moment.  Then he took a deep and shaky breath.  “What if I never get it back?” he whispered.

Harry didn’t say anything.  He wasn’t exactly sure what Malfoy meant, but was so hesitant to say the wrong thing and break Malfoy’s sudden spell of honesty.  

“What if I never get any of it back?” he continued.

“Well,” Harry said, carefully, “you’re talking to me, aren’t you?”

Malfoy let out a harsh laugh.  “You don’t count.”

Harry raised his eyebrows, affronted.

“How will I give another lecture?  Make another speech?”  Malfoy began wringing his hands nervously.  “There were days, teaching class, when I tried not to—“ he cut himself off and shook his head.  “But I couldn’t do it, Potter.”  Grey eyes looked up to Harry, searching.  “I couldn’t do it.”

Harry knew Malfoy was talking about using Felix Felicis now.

“I lost . . . my words,” Malfoy mumbled.  “I’d get tongue-tied and I couldn’t,” he took a shaky breath, “I couldn’t—”  He dropped his head in his hands and coughed out a dry sob.  “It was so fucking pathetic.”

“You weren’t able to teach without it,”  Harry ventured, continuing the use of past tense even though this was likely only a few weeks ago.

Malfoy whipped his head up and sniffed.  “I was always a good speaker.  Always.  And now it’s like my brain is,” he winced, looking upward, “misfiring.  Th-the connections aren’t,” he tried to demonstrate by flicking his hands at each other, then dropping them, hopelessly, “they aren’t there.”  

“Can you explain what you mean?”

Malfoy winced and tapped on his forehead with his hand, gesturing to something that Harry couldn’t see, but that he knew was all too real to Malfoy.  “It’s just . . . _noise.”_

“You feel foggy?”

“I feel perpetually confused.  I feel like,”  he took a deep breath, seemingly steeling himself, “like I will _never_ be as good as I was. . . I’ll never be as smart.  I’ll never be as creative.  I’ll never know the right thing to do. But taking the potion . . . it was—“ Malfoy paused and frowned, searching for the words, “a _relief.”_

Harry noticed that Malfoy allowed himself a small smile and wondered if it was because he had found the right word on his own.  “What was a relief?”

“Always knowing the right thing to do.”  He had a faraway, wistful look on his face.  “Having certainty that whatever you did, it didn’t matter, because it was always _right_.”

“That matters a lot to you?”  Harry asked, trying to let the enormity of Malfoy’s words sink in. “Being right?”

Malfoy just looked at him.   “When you’ve managed to be wrong about things as much as I have?” He laughed softly and shook his head. “Yeah, Potter.  It matters.”

….

….

….

That day was a difficult one for Malfoy.  After opening up to Harry, he seemed to close up even more everywhere else.  And, worse than that, he seemed unable to look Harry in the eye at all anymore.

In group, Malfoy seemed almost angry at Harry, sneering at him every time Harry cast a glance his way.  During Music Therapy, Malfoy sat alone with only his Rehabilitation Journal for company.  When Harry glanced over Malfoy’s shoulder as he made rounds, he noticed that the writing was jagged, sloppy and with multiple cross-outs and scribbles over the words he had written with the red quill he’d received in the Quentin Ross set from Narcissa.

Harry usually wasn’t present during mealtime at the clinic, but today he was a bit concerned about Malfoy, especially after the conversation they had that morning. Sitting off to the side with Healer McClintock, Harry watched as Malfoy looked back and forth between the basket of rolls on the table and the serving dish of green beans, seemingly unable to decide which to pair with his shephard’s pie. Every time he’d reach for the bean spoon, he’d quickly draw his hand back.  Every time he grabbed for a roll, he’d quickly replace it.

After several minutes of this, Clark yelled at him for getting germs all over the food.

Malfoy responded that he didn’t have germs, then picked up his plate, dumped it in the trash and headed for his room.

McClintock turned to Harry with serious look on his face.  “That one,” he said, pointing at Malfoy.  “What kind of progress has he been making?”

“Well,” Harry said, pulling off the corner of a stale roll and buttering it, “he had a minor breakthrough today.”

McClintock raised his eyebrows.  “He admitted to being an addict?”

“Well,” Harry said again, “not exactly.  He alluded to it.”

The older Healer sighed.  “I don’t know, Healer Potter.”  McClintock wrote something down in a planner and Harry leaned forward to try and read it, but McClintock quickly snapped the tiny book shut.  “There are plenty of other people who could take his place in the program.  People who actually _want_ help . . . “

“He does!”  Harry insisted.  “I know it.”

“He’s already on probation, isn’t that right?”

Harry nodded, hesitantly.

“Hmm,” McClintock said, and Harry didn’t like the way he said it at all.

….

….

….

“Ron,” said Harry, after they’d finished dinner at his and Hermione’s flat, “I need you to run a background check on a name.”

“Sure, mate,” Ron said, taking a sip of Butterbeer.  “What’s the name?”

Harry scribbled down the name “Joseph Gricharak” on a spare bit of parchment that had one of Hermione’s old grocery lists on the back and handed it to Ron.

“Gricharak?” Ron asked.  “Isn’t he the bloke who donated all that money to the Muggle Education Fund?”

Harry nodded.  “Yeah,” he said, “but I have a feeling he’s been involved in some dirty business of some sort.  Malfoy swears he’s the one who attacked him.”

Ron widened his eyes and laughed.  “Oh, Malfoy swears, does he?” He looked at the grocery list and flipped it over. “I thought you said he was having a psychotic episode?  How does he know what he saw?”

Harry sighed.  “I know, I know,” he said.  “But they do know each other.” He took a sip of his own Butterbeer.  “And I promised myself that I would try and believe that cock-and-bull story he’s been telling me.”

“Sounds like you don’t,” Ron pointed out.

“I sort of do. I’m trying to.”  Harry gave Ron a wan smile.  “Would you just check him out?  And also whoever works for him?  Just see who he runs around with.”

“‘Course, Harry.” Ron gave Harry a solid nod and stuck the parchment bit in his pocket.

Ron’s Floo roared to life and Penelope, the H.A. from St. Mungos, appeared in the flames.  “Is Healer Potter here?” she asked.  Her voice sounded urgent.  Harry scrambled up from the couch and dropped to his knees before the fireplace.

“Yes, Penelope, hi.  What’s up?”

“Healer, there’s a bit of an emergency,” she said.  “One of your patients has gone missing.”

Harry shut his eyes and exhaled.  So much for a night off.  “Tell McClintock I’ll be right there.”

….

….

….

Not surprisingly, the missing patient was Draco Malfoy.  Wards had been set off when he left the Rehabilitation Clinic and his wand had gone missing, but Floo records and Entrance Records indicated that he was still somewhere on the premises.

Security guards had been scouring the grounds.  The elder Malfoys had been notified, as they were Malfoy’s emergency contacts.  And, upon frantic inspection of Malfoy’s quarters, Harry had broken the cardinal rule of trust and read Malfoy’s Rehabilitation Journal, desperate for clues.

McClintock was not going to be right.  Malfoy was not going to be another statistic. Although, the fact that he had disappeared and was already on probation bode really, really badly for him.  This would undoubtedly be his third strike unless he had a very good reason for his absence.

Harry leafed through the journal.  The pages were covered with scribbled out sentences that had been re-worded a hundred different ways.  There were multi-colored doodles (at least Malfoy had been putting that Quill Set to good use) of animals, other patients (identifiable only because their names were written underneath) an eerily accurate picture of Professor Flitwick beside a jug of milk labeled “Milk” and a cow labeled “Cow,” and several unfinished drawings of glasses and messy hair that Harry didn’t want to think too hard about.

The last entry was dated that morning.

_I don’t even know what to say right now._

_Well, nothing new about that._

_I told P and now all I can think about is how shitty I feel and how much better I could feel._

_The solution is so bloody easy.  All I need is my damn wand.  And I’m pretty sure I know where that is._

_But then . . . all I’ve been through would be a waste._

_All I want to know is if I’m ever going to be right again.  But I don’t think so.  I have a feeling about it.  I went too far and there’s really nothing left for me._

_McGonagall won’t want me back.  Not when she sees what I’ve become.  What I always was, I suppose.  What I AM._

_I couldn’t even choose a fucking SIDE-DISH today.  I don’t need rehabilitation.  I need to be institutionalized.  I ought to just head on over to the Janus Thickey Ward and be done with it._

_I think I’m going insane._

….

….

….

“He must still be in the hospital,” McClintock insisted.

“I don’t think so,” Harry said.  “I mean, I think he was, for a bit, but I don’t think he’s here now.”

“No,” the man frowned, drawing his bushy grey eyebrows together.  “He would have triggered the wards.”

“Not if he disassembled them first,” Harry pointed out.

McClintock scoffed.  “That is a ridiculously difficult spell, Healer Potter.”

“But, perhaps not so difficult if you’re on Felix,” Harry said, remembering how he had felt infallible and indeed, performed a nearly impossible refilling spell wandlessly while on the potion in the sixth year.

Healer McClintock’s eyes widened.  “Merlin alive,” he murmured.  “I hadn’t thought of that.”  And before Harry could say another word, McClintock was sending his Patronus throughout the hospital to call off the man-hunt and check the Potions stockroom.

When it turned out that, indeed, two bottles of Felix Felicis had gone missing, along with the presumed Felix addict, Harry knew Malfoy was in big trouble.

He needed to find him.  But where would he have gone?  McGonagall had temporarily banned his access from the castle, so he couldn’t go to his quarters and the small house that he had near his parents’ in Wiltshire had been seized by the Ministry when they’d located the stolen potions and ingredients in the home’s private lab.

Something told Harry that he needed to go to Malfoy Manor.  The Floo network at St Mungos was on an emergency line network and thus Healers had access to warded Floos if the owners had signed the Emergency Situation Clause (which awarded all who signed it full confidentiality, no matter the case).  Even the purest of pure bloods and the Darkest of (suspected) Dark Wizards had signed the Clause, including the Malfoys.

So, without wasting another minute, Harry headed toward the Floo and shouted “Malfoy Manor.”

Moments later, he tumbled out into a large, ornate entryway and had barely regained his footing when he heard the sound of a loud smack.  Harry jerked his head up to see Narcissa Malfoy breathing heavily, her nostrils flared, her eyes wide, and Malfoy covering his smarting cheek with one hand.

“Mother!” he yelped.

“How dare you!”  Narcissa shrieked, sounding uncannily like her sister Bellatrix. “What is the _matter_ with you, Draco?”  She raised her hand again and Draco cowed, stepping back and drawing into himself.

Before she could smack him across the face again, Lucius Malfoy briskly stepped into the room and Narcissa lowered her arm.

“You hit me!” Malfoy said in horror.  “I can’t believe you hit me!”

Lucius looked between Narcissa and Malfoy, quickly assessing the situation and automatically choosing Narcissa’s side without explanation.  “What is the meaning of this?” He spoke in a low voice that was, quite frankly, terrifying.

“I just--”

“Why,” Lucius said through gritted teeth, “are you _here?”_

Looking suddenly lost, Malfoy frowned.  “That’s a good question,” he muttered.

“You’ve taken that potion, haven’t you?” Narcissa’s face was tight.

“No!”

“Do _not_ lie to your mother, Draco, or so help me, Merlin—”

“I’ve been reading, Draco.”  Narcissa voice shook, slightly, but she raised her chin, just a bit.  “And I can tell.  Did you think you could just go on playing your father and me for fools?”

“No, Mother. That isn’t—” Malfoy had moved a few steps back from his parents and was inching ever closer to the front doors.

“Evidently, you did,” Lucius snarled, gripping his wife’s arm, tightly.  “Because your mother had to find out from Harry Potter,” he spat the name like it was full of venom, “that you’ve been lying to our faces for months.  Stealing,” his voice cracked, “stealing—from Hogwarts? For God’s sakes, Draco!”

Harry could tell from the look on the younger Malfoy’s face that he had likely been so wrapped up in his own pain and misery that it did not occur to him that coming back to the Manor was probably not his best choice.  And if, like Narcissa and Harry suspected, Malfoy had taken Felix Felicis, he was most certainly feeling baffled at his sudden bad luck.

“It sounds worse than it is,” Malfoy said in a small voice.  He was clenching and un-clenching his fingers.

“Somehow, I doubt that,” his father snapped.

Narcissa took a step toward Malfoy and lifted his chin in her hands.  He flinched away from her and shut his eyes tightly.  She grabbed him forcefully by the chin and yanked his head upwards.  “Open your eyes.”

He did, wincing as though he were in pain.  Narcissa reached up with her other hand and removed his glasses.  She peered closely into his eyes which were fluttering and quickly filling with moisture.

“I knew it.”  Her voice sounded hoarse.  She let go of his head as if in disgust and Malfoy stumbled back a few steps, his back smacking against a green, curtained wall. He let out a shaky exhale and wrapped his arms tightly around himself.

“You’re going back,” Lucius stated.  “Immediately.”  He pointed a finger toward the Floo but, still, no one had looked in Harry’s direction.  Feeling like he should say something soon, Harry took a step forward.

“They won’t take me back,” Malfoy muttered, looking sick.  “Not now.”

“You’re _going back_ ,” Lucius’ voice began to rise.  “And I don’t want to see you again until you’ve got this little problem of yours sorted out.”

“But—”

“The Malfoys have given Saint Mungos many generous donations over the years.  I don’t see why they couldn’t make an exception in your case.”

Sensing this was the time to make his presence known, Harry cleared his throat noisily. The three Malfoys paused and looked at him with similar expressions of shock on their pinched, pointy faces.  “Um. Excuse me.”

“Fuck’s sake,” Draco muttered, rolling his eyes.

“Language!” Narcissa hissed.  Lucius gave Draco a disgusted sneer before facing Harry and turning on the charm full-force.  It was infuriating the way Lucius Malfoy acted around Harry these days--as if he hadn’t tried to hand him over to Voledmort on multiple occasions throughout his childhood.   But, Harry supposed, with the Ministry breathing down his back, he couldn’t afford not to. “Healer Potter,” he greeted with a cordial nod.  “I take it, you’ve come calling for Draco?” Lucius stepped toward his cowering son and put an arm around his back, shoving the reluctant blond a few stumbling steps toward Harry. 

“Actually, sir,” Harry said, trying to ignore the fact this man was Lucius Malfoy, “would you mind if I spoke with your son for a few moments in private?”

“No,” Narcissa said quickly, grabbing for Lucius’ arm.  “No, of course not.  Not at all.  Maggs!”

A house-elf appeared in the entryway.

“Maggs, go fetch Healer Potter some tea and biscuits.  Or would you like something else, perhaps?”

“Er, no!” Harry put a hand out to stop the elf.  “No, thank you.  That’s really . . . quite alright.”

The Malfoys just stared at him with the house-elf standing between them.  They seemed unsure of what to do, as if their offers of tea had never been declined before.

“Just take it, Potter,” Harry heard Draco mutter beside him.

“I mean,” Harry surveyed the frozen faces, just wanting them to go away, “yes.  Fine.  Tea. Thanks.”

The Malfoys instantly relaxed and turned to leave the room.  Maggs vanished, reappeared a moment later setting a tea tray down on the entryway table, and disappeared again.

There was a cold, uncomfortable looking white marble bench at the foot of the table and Malfoy gestured to it, indicating that Harry take a seat.  Harry noticed that Malfoy did appear to be a bit more amped up than usual and, again, his eyes were wide, dilated and nearly unblinking.

They both sat and the stiff, uncomfortable silence echoed in the cold marble around them.

“So,” Malfoy said, his voice and movements quicker than usual, his face drawn and pale.  “Now what?”

“Did you use?” Harry had to ask, even though the answer was obvious. 

 Malfoy began to bounce his knee up and down.  He clenched his mouth together tightly, swallowed and turned his head away from Harry.

“Did you use?” Harry asked again.

Malfoy continued to bounce his knee, making the whole bench wobble.

“Malfoy.”

“Yes, alright?” Malfoy snapped. “Yes! I _used_.”  He drew the word out, mockingly.  “Happy?”

“You don’t seem happy about it,” Harry said.

Malfoy let out a derisive snort and waved his arms around in emphatic circles. “Yeah. Right. And I’m sure it’s too much to hope that you missed my mother’s dramatic little display a minute ago? So much for luck.”

“She hit you.”  Harry felt like this was important to bring up.

Malfoy pressed a hand to his cheek. “I know,” he murmured. “I can’t believe it.”

“Why do you think she did that?”

Malfoy pulled a nasty face. “Oh, and I suppose you think I deserved that, did you?” He slid a foot out and crossed his feet at the ankles.  Then he uncrossed them and crossed them again, the other way.  He uncrossed them and sighed. 

“Why do you think she did it?” Harry asked again.

“Aren’t your lot supposed to call Child Welfare Services in these cases?”

“You do realize that you’re 22 years old.”

Malfoy deflated.  “Oh, yeah.”  He perked up.  “The Aurors, then?”

“You’d like me to call the Aurors?”  Harry asked, doubtfully.  “And tell them, what?  Two bottles of Felix Felicis were stolen from Saint Mungos the same night that you broke out of the clinic?”

“No.” Malfoy frowned.  “Domestic abuse?”

“I don’t think so.”

They were quiet for a few moments before Harry said, a third time, “Why do you think your mother hit you?”

“Fuck you, Potter,” he snarled. “You know why.”

“But do you?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Then, I’d like to hear you say it,” Harry said.  

“Can’t you just take me back?” Malfoy looked at Harry with pleading eyes. “Please?  Please, Potter.  This was a mistake.  I swear, it won’t happen again.  I’ll come to all the meetings.  I’ll even speak up in group and sing about Susan’s fat thighs if you want.”

Harry was nearly convinced, and he wished it were that easy, but . . . “Look, Malfoy.  I can’t take you back there if you’ve been using.  It’s against the rules and it wouldn’t be fair to the other patients.”

“Bugger the rules!  Bugger the patients!”  Malfoy said, waving wildly.  “You never gave a rat’s arse about rules before.”

“You need to sleep this off and then make an appeal for re-admittance when you’re sober and capable of making your own decisions.”

Malfoy threaded his hands through his hair.  “I know what I’m saying!”   He was breathing very quickly and Harry was tempted to check his heart-rate, just to be sure.  

“You are under the influence of a potion that you yourself said this morning affected your ability to choose.”

“Yes!  I said it always made me choose the right thing!”  Malfoy tore his hands out of his hair and gestured to the expanse of the room.  

“Felix Felicis not only affects your ability to make decisions, but it also affects the decisions of those around you.”  Harry began to feel himself grow angry.  “When you use that potion, you are manipulating the people in your vicinity to bend to your will and that is not only unhealthy for you, it is just . . . wrong!”

Malfoy looked away from Harry, biting his bottom lip.

“The night of the Battle Anniversary,” Harry said in a lower voice, trying to remind himself that Malfoy was not taking Felix Felicis to hurt anyone else, only to attempt to help himself, “I lost my speech notes.  I tore apart my house looking for them and found them buried in that bag in the back of my closet.”  Harry looked at Malfoy, trying to mentally convince him to meet his gaze, but it didn’t work. “And—what a coincidence! There was your wand inside, the same night I happened to run into you.”  Malfoy sniffled.  “The same night you were using Felix.  One of many nights, I presume.”

Despite Malfoy’s discomfort and silence, Harry felt certain that—for once—Malfoy was actually listening to him.  “At first, I thought it was really cool seeing you that night.  I thought how much you’d changed. I could see how you were doing all of these great things and helping so many people.” 

Malfoy, slumped, covering his eyes with his left hand.  

“And then I saw you later and you were so bizarre.  So unlike yourself it was eerie and not in a good way.” Harry shrugged.  “Not that eerie is ever a good thing.  Just that—”

“I get it,” Malfoy said.  “I know. I know what I get like.”

“How do you feel about it?”

“Honestly? Embarrassed.”

Harry blinked, taken aback.  “Why?”

“Because-it’s like . . .  I want to act that way, but I don’t.”  Malfoy shook his head.  “Am I acting that way now?”

“What way?”

“Like I don’t shut up.  I just want to keep talking.  I think everything I say is the most clever thing I’ve ever said.  And then, in retrospect, it isn’t.  At all.” Malfoy shrugged. “Usually it doesn’t even come close to making sense but while I’m saying it, I just have to follow this mad urge to get it out.  Like, if I don’t say it, something bad will happen. I’ll forget it.  And whatever was going to happen won’t happen.”

Harry tried to understand this.

“Like everything hedges on my ability to follow the potion’s command even though-even though, by nature, whatever you do is supposedly following the potion’s command, so . . .”  Malfoy shook his head.  “I’m not making sense, am I?”

“No, you are a bit, actually,” said Harry.  “But there’s one thing you’ve got wrong.”

“What’s that?”

“You have this idea that as long as you follow the potion’s intended command, everything will work out for the best,” said Harry.  “But that’s only when taken rarely and in small doses. Beyond that, you’re no more lucky than the average person since, like you’re saying, the potion begins pulling you in too many directions at once and it ceases to be a good thing.”

Malfoy just looked at him.

“The fact is,” Harry said, “some choices _are_ better than others.  You can’t ever make all of the right choices and you can’t ever make all of the wrong choices.  A choice is just that-a choice.  It will lead to a series of outcomes and a series of new choices.  And that’s it.  Life goes on.”

“Maybe.”  He looked doubtful.

“Look,” said Harry.  “Have you made good choices on Felix?”

“Yes.”

“Have you made bad choices on Felix?”

Malfoy nodded, looking away.

“Okay,” said Harry.  “Have you made good choices not on Felix?”

Malfoy’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.  “Yes . . . not many, mind you, but-”

“But you have. Yes?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.  And have you made bad choices not on Felix?”

“Yes, Potter.”  Malfoy rolled his eyes. “I get what you’re saying.”

“It’s the truth.”

“I know it is.”  The blond pressed his lips together into a thin line and frowned.

“One more question.”  Harry looked in the direction where Narcissa and Lucius had fled, wondering if they were listening into this conversation.  Most likely.  “Why do you think your mother hit you tonight?”

Malfoy stayed silent for so long that Harry was just about ready to get up and leave.  When Harry went to stand, an arm reached out and gripped onto his, holding him in place.

Harry turned to him and raised his eyebrows.  “Well?”

“Because,” Malfoy shut his eyes, attempting a sort of blind nonchalance. “ I’m addicted to Felix Felicis and I showed up at the Manor high when I was supposed to be in rehab.” He paused for a moment, then his face crinkled up, destroying the unaffected look.  “And it scared her,” he choked out, drawing into himself.  “Because I almost died the last time I did it.”  He buried his head in his hands making wet, snuffly noises.  Compelled to do something, Harry wrapped an arm around the thin, shaking shoulders.

Malfoy tried to say something, but Harry couldn’t understand him.

“What?”

“Happy, now?” The words lacked his usual bite, sounding defeated.

“You know something, Malfoy?” Harry said, gently, tightening his grip. “I am, actually. Quite happy.”

Malfoy scoffed, the sound coming out gurgly and wet.  “Why?” He sniffed.

“Because now that you’ve admitted that, you can start getting better.”

“I hate you so much.”

Harry just nodded.  Rude as the words were, the fact that Malfoy was still leaning against him spoke worlds.  What it meant, exactly, Harry wasn’t sure, but it definitely seemed like a good sign.  At the very least, it appeared that Malfoy trusted him now.  It was amazing, really, that in one day Harry was able to get Malfoy to this point just by changing his own actions.

The problem they had to worry about now was Healer McClintock.  The man had very strict standards for his ward and, to date, had never accepted a patient back into treatment who had broken the code of conduct.  The clinic was very selective and there was a waiting list of witches and wizards who would have gladly taken Malfoy’s abandoned seat in the program.  St. Mungos was the only treatment program in the Wizarding World which had already employed both the use of traditional therapy as well as healing spells to promote overall wellness in patients.  Its success rate was higher than other programs. But, it was almost guaranteed not to work in a patient who couldn’t admit his own weaknesses and repeatedly broke rules.

And, in the case of Malfoy, he had not only failed to comply with standards throughout the program’s duration, but had committed a Class C felony on top of that.

Harry hoped he could plead Malfoy’s case—prove that today’s actions were a symptom of the illness and that they had actually prompted Malfoy toward recovery because he had finally taken the first crucial step which was admitting one had an addiction.

It was a long shot . . .

And if it didn’t work, Harry wasn’t above reminding McClintock of all of the Galleons the Malfoys had donated to the hospital over the years.  It was most certainly a hefty sum.  

Whatever worked.

Malfoy finally straightened.  His knee was still bouncing up and down, but not quite so intensely as before.  “What now?” he asked.  “Where do I go? I mean, I have a few ideas but what I really mean is—”

“I can’t take you back there tonight.”

“I _know_.” Malfoy snapped.  “I mean,” he waved a hand around, “will I be going back there?” He cleared his throat.  “As in, ever?”

“Well,” Harry said, “that’s something we’ll have to look into tomorrow.  In the meantime, we need to find you a safe place to stay.”

A smirk didn’t quite reach Malfoy’s eyes.  “Oh, you don’t think my mother was glad to see me?”  He picked up the pot of tea, hand movements too quick to be as casual as he was attempting to be, and poured himself a measure.  

Where could Malfoy go?  The hospital was off-limits and Harry was skeptical about anyone who claimed to be a friend.  McGonagall would probably take him for the night, but Harry doubted Malfoy was ready to face her just yet-not to mention that Malfoy shouldn’t really be exposed to others—especially impressionable children—in his highly charged magical state.  

Harry had one idea, but . . .  “Anyone else?”

Malfoy shook his head softly, looking at the tea clutched tightly in his hands.  “Pansy, maybe, but,” he grimaced, “I’d rather—not—answer any—” He pressed his finger tips to his eye and sighed, rubbing, “questions yet.”

A slight blush was playing over Malfoy’s cheeks as he stared at the tea cup in his hands.  He was embarrassed.  Understandably so.  And he would have to face the music of his actions sooner or later, but, Harry agreed—tonight was not that night.

His heart ached for Malfoy and for the difficult road ahead of him. Before he could really think about it, Harry said, “I suppose you could always crash with me.”

The minute that the unprofessional and unethical words tumbled from his mouth, Harry knew it was too late to take them back.  Malfoy sat up straight, seeming suddenly aware of the physical contact he had with his Healer, and shifted over on the bench.

“Sorry,” Harry said quickly, moving away from Malfoy on instinct.  “I shouldn’t have said that.  That would be completely out of line.  Patients and Healers—”

“Okay.”

“What?” Harry began to protest but Malfoy was already on his feet, gulping down the rest of his tea and slamming the cup down on the tea tray.

“Let’s go.”

Harry stood slowly, a dawning realization creeping over him.  “That’s exactly what you wanted—isn’t it!”

Harry was met with an indignant stare.  “Excuse me?”

“You manipulative little—”

“Fuck you, Potter!” Malfoy snapped, taking a step back.  “Forget it, then.  I’ll go sleep in the Peacock Pen.”

“No, I just—”

“No.”  Malfoy looked angry now. “I know I took what I took, but I’ll not be told that I’m manipulating you.  That isn’t how it works, anyway.  You offered because you wanted to.  Maybe you wouldn’t have offered at all, if all this hadn’t happened but it _has_ and you _did_ so just accept it or fuck off.”  Nostrils flared as he breathed through his nose.  “If you don’t want me in your house, just say so.”

Feeling guilt mix with his exasperation, Harry gave a heavy sigh.  He was still being manipulated.  He knew it.  But knowing it didn’t change the reality that Harry’s words had apparently hurt Malfoy and that there was a very strong likelihood of Malfoy ending up in the Peacock Pen if Harry didn’t just let him stay.  Though, knowing the Malfoys, the “Peacock Pen” was probably furnished better than Harry’s entire flat . . .

Harry turned and headed toward the Floo, pausing at the fireplace to take a scoopful of Floo Powder.  “Well,” he called, “you coming?”

Malfoy scratched the side of his cheek then crossed his arms.  “Do I have to borrow your pajamas?” he asked in disdain.

“Do you _have_ to?” Harry asked with a laugh.  “How about are you _allowed_ to?  And the answer is, _No_. Go get your own pajamas.”  Harry nodded toward the staircase. “I’ll wait.”

Malfoy cast an apprehensive glance at the staircase.

“Go on,” Harry said, his face one of calm amusement. “I’m sure you’ve got some extras packed away here.”

Making a face, Malfoy called for a house-elf and, within seconds, was holding a bright red duffel.  It had a picture of a little cartoon fellow in a pork-pie hat and large lettering spelled out, “Martin Miggs, The Live Experience!” inside a yellow, jagged starburst.  Underneath it read, “London, 1988.”

“Cute,” said Harry.

“Go to hell, Potter.”  Malfoy shoved past Harry, nearly knocking him into the Floo and grabbing a handful of powder.

_This is going to be a long night_ , Harry thought.

….

….

….

Harry had just finished tucking a sheet around the cushions of his couch when his Floo roared to life.  Casting Malfoy a meaningful glance, Harry went over to answer it.  Catching on quickly, Malfoy darted from the room to hide in the kitchen.  It went without saying that, if anyone from St Mungos found out that Malfoy was staying with Harry, it wouldn’t be good—for either of them.

Expecting to see Penelope or someone from work, Harry was surprised when Ron appeared in the green flames.

“Everything alright, mate?” Ron asked, casting a furtive glance at the apartment behind Harry.  The sheet and duffel bag were, thankfully, hidden from sight by the backside of his yellow couch.

“Hey, Ron.”  Harry put a hand to his head.  “Yeah,” he said, “sort of.  I mean-I’m working on it.”

“Oh, good.”  Ron gave Harry a nod.  “Just wanted to check in is all.  Oh,” he reached down for something, his forehead wrinkling up, then relaxed, holding something in his hands, “you left this.”

It was Harry’s jacket.  “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “I’ll just get it later—this weekend or something.”

“You’re sure you don’t want me to—?”

Ron looked ready to step forward into Harry’s apartment.  “Er-no!  Really.  Right now, I just need sleep.  Besides,” he lied, “I’ve got another one.”

“You do?” Ron frowned.

“Yeah,” said Harry, with a nod.  “So, anyway.   Long night—I’ll have to tell you about it later, but right now—” Harry faked a long, exhausted yawn and stretched, “I can’t even keep my eyes open.”

Ron grinned.  “You’re too good, Harry,” he said.  “McClintock should give you a raise or something.”

“It’s just my job.”

Ron shrugged.  “Maybe,” he said.  “But, I don’t recall anyone actually telling you to run off to the hospital tonight.  All they did was tell you there was a problem.  Most people would have just said ‘Thanks for the update,’ and gone off to bed.”

Was that true? Harry didn’t think so. He had just assumed that when Penelope Firecalled, that he was supposed to go and help.  “Habit, I guess.” He yawned again and this time it was real.  “Can’t help it.”

“Get some sleep, Harry,” said Ron.  “And don’t forget—Cannons versus Puddlemere at the Leaky on Friday.”

“Oh, right,” said Harry.

“You forgot, didn’t you?  You put down  three Galleons on McGuinness and you still forgot!”  Ron shook his head, amused.  “Unbelievable.” 

“I’ll be there,” Harry promised.  “Bring my coat.”

“Sure thing, mate.”  With that, Ron’s head disappeared and the green flames fizzled out to red.  When Harry was sure that Ron was gone, he called tentatively into the kitchen.  “Malfoy?”

When he didn’t get an answer, Harry climbed to his feet and began walking in the direction Malfoy had fled, hoping he hadn’t decided to make a second break-out.

When he reached the kitchen, Harry was surprised to find that, not only had Malfoy _not_ made another escape attempt, he had actually, on the contrary, made himself right at home.  A kettle was heating on the range and Malfoy was sitting at Harry’s light oak kitchen table, sorting through a stack of Harry’s opened mail.

“Hey!”  Harry cried out, snatching a letter from his hands.

“Ooh, so protective,” Malfoy muttered, flipping disinterestedly through a men’s clothing catalogue.  Harry tried not to notice that all of the men were sporting tight, white pants. “It was boring, anyway.”

“You _read_ it?” Harry tried to figure out what the letter was.  It appeared to be from Neville.

“I had to do something while you sat in there, gossiping away with Weasley.”  Neville worked at Hogwarts with Malfoy.  Harry deeply hoped that Neville hadn’t mentioned anything about Malfoy’s absence in the letter.  If he had, it could seriously derail Malfoy’s progress.  “Doesn’t Longbottom have anything more interesting to jabber on about than the hormonal state of his Mandrakes?” 

“Well,” grumbled Harry, dropping into a chair across from Malfoy, “you’d know better than I would.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You work with him,” Harry said slowly, as though Malfoy were an idiot. “Don’t you?”

“Oh,” said Malfoy.  “Yeah. I did.”

“Did?”

“Do.”  Malfoy sat up sharply and twisted around in his seat.  “Is that tea ready yet?” he asked loudly.

The kettle hadn’t whistled, so Harry thought it was pretty obvious to both of them that the tea was _not_ ready, but he didn’t want to say so.  Instead, he just watched as Malfoy climbed out of his chair and began to putter restlessly around by the range.  He busied himself by grabbing two mugs and moving the sugar bowl forward from the back of the counter to the front of it, next to the tea cups.  Biting his lip in intense concentration, Malfoy began to cast deep glances around the kitchen in search of, Harry suspected, the cream.

Taking pity on him, Harry moved toward the fridge that Malfoy was now blocking with his body, gesturing for him to step aside.  Malfoy stepped back and stood beside Harry, watching in fascination as Harry opened the door and reached in for the cream.  As he was rearranging boxes to get the jug, a pale hand snuck over his shoulder and touched a bowl of overripe grapes on the top shelf.  The hand began waving around and Harry paused in his search to glance up at Malfoy and find out what the hell he was doing.

The blonde’s eyes were wide and his mouth was parted open in awe as his hand continued the exploration of the fridge.  

“It’s a refrigerator,” said Harry.

“It’s _cold_ ,” said Malfoy, pulling his hand back and sticking it in his pocket.  “How do they do that?  And there’s light inside.  Look.”  He pointed at the light that Harry already knew was there and stared at Harry, expectantly.  Catching on, Harry hummed his acknowledgment. “Muggles made this?  How do they do it?”  He looked slightly embarrassed at his inability to hide his interest, mumbling the last part of his question and looking at the floor.

Harry snatched up the cream and let the door fall shut with a snick.  “With electricity.” He set the cream on the counter next to the mugs and went to have a seat.  “It’s how Muggles harness energy to create power.”

Malfoy looked baffled for a moment.  He narrowed his eyes at the refrigerator, then pointed to the toaster sitting on the counter.  “You mean plugs.”

“Um.”  Malfoy had snatched up the plug hanging from the toaster cord and held it within inches of his wide, grey eyes.  “Yeah, I guess. Plugs are part of it.” Amused, Harry watched as Malfoy made his wary way around the kitchen, fingering every one of the electrical devices.  When he got to the coffee maker, he followed the cord to the plug which was connected to the wall socket.  “Where’s this one?” he asked.

“It’s plugged in,” said Harry, with a smirk.  “You have to pull it out.”

Malfoy gave a ginger tug and extracted the plug from the wall.  “That’s insane,” he murmured, peering closely at the wall.  “Power comes from in there?” he asked.

“Sort of . . .”

“Can it—” Malfoy reached his hands toward the socket and Harry jumped up out of his seat.

“No!”

Startled, Malfoy dropped the plug and spun around, just as the tea kettle started going off.  Harry ran to the range and turned it off quickly, keeping his eyes glued on Malfoy to make sure he didn’t go back to the socket and electrocute himself.

“Why can’t I touch it?” He sounded petulant and looked ready to do it again when Harry reached out a hand and grabbed his arm, pulling it away.

“No!  Don’t touch it.  It’s dangerous,” said Harry.  He felt more like he was talking to Teddy Lupin than a fully grown, educated man. 

“Dangerous?”  Malfoy looked suddenly interested, a smirk at the corner of his features. 

“Yes,” Harry snapped, growing annoyed.  “Just promise me you won’t touch it, yeah?  You’ll get a nasty shock or worse—especially in your current state—and just . . . no.  Okay?”

“Fine.”

“Tea?” growled Harry, splashing the hot liquid into both of the mugs without waiting for an answer.

Once Harry had finally coaxed Malfoy away from the electrical devices and into a chair, he was certain his head hadn’t spun so much in ages.  

“Why do you take so much sugar in your coffee but not in your tea?” Malfoy asked, dumping sugar into his own tea by the spoonful.

“I do, usually,” said Harry, “just not before bed.”

“What difference does that make?”

“Sugar makes me . . . hyper,” Harry exclaimed, for lack of a better word.  “You should know that—you’re a Potions Master.”

“I do know that,” said Malfoy.  “But most adults don’t abide by those rules.”

“Well, I like to be careful with what I put inside of me.”  Harry cursed himself when he realized what he had implied. 

“Unlike me, you mean?” Malfoy said, lightly, though he seemed to add another spoonful of sugar to his tea just for spite.

“Well,” said Harry, “honestly, yeah.”

Malfoy took a sip of his tea.  “I do care about what I put inside of me, you know.”

“Oh?” said Harry. “And, I’m guessing, you make big exceptions to that on a fairly frequent basis?”

Malfoy slammed his teacup down.  “Why are you such an arse?” He looked seriously offended.  “Makes you feel big and important, does it?”

The suspicion that Malfoy felt smaller and more meaningless than he ever had before kept Harry’s mouth shut.

When the uncomfortable silence stretched on for longer than the blond’s potioned-up nerves could take, he finally broke it.  “The tea is decent.”

“Just the right temperature,” Harry said.  “Must’ve been a genius operating the kettle.”

Grey eyes searched Harry, trying to determine whether or not he was insulting him.  Apparently coming to the conclusion that he hadn’t been, Malfoy shrugged and said, “All I did was cast an Incendio on the range.”

Shit.  Malfoy still had his wand.  “Which reminds me,” Harry began, but before he could finish, a wooden stick hit the table with a clack and rolled neatly off the edge into Harry’s palm.  It wasn’t the wand that Harry had returned to Malfoy at the Battle Anniversary. He’d obviously been using a different one for the past few years and had continued to use it even after receiving his old one back.  Despite the fact that Malfoy could have potentially grabbed the hawthorn wand at some point back at the Manor, Harry decided to accept the gesture on faith.

“I’m going to trust that this is the only wand that you have on you.”

“It is.”

“Thank you.”

Malfoy picked up a spoon and stirred lazy circles around his tea.  He then pushed the back of the spoon against the surface of the tea, as though trying to see how hard he could push without allowing the tea to come up over the sides. 

“Do you always play with your food?” Harry asked.

“I’m inspecting its surface tension,” Malfoy said.  He pushed a little harder and the brown liquid swallowed up the spoon, pooling in its mouth.

“And?” asked Harry.  “How is it?”

“It’s fine.”  Malfoy removed the spoon from the mug, tapped it against the rim three times and set it aside on the wooden table.  “It must be satisfying for you,” he said.

“What must?” Harry asked.

“Seeing me like this.”  Malfoy sipped his tea, making reluctant eye-contact with Harry.  “You—a Resident Healer, successfully employed at St Mungos and me—a pathetic, thieving addict.”

Harry’s jaw dropped.  He didn’t even begin to know where to start protesting, but he tried anyway. “You’re not!  I don’t.  I mean-I don’t feel that way.  At all.”  

“Oh, come on, Potter,” Malfoy said lightly.  “I’m sure a little part of you must revel in seeing me get what’s been coming, right?”

“Malfoy—”

“Well, you can’t _say_ so, of course,” Malfoy drawled.  Harry suspected that his current gusto was a front for a wealth of insecurity.  “That would be unprofessional.  But deep down, you must love it.  True, poetic justice.”

“Enough,” said Harry.  “If I truly felt that way, I wouldn’t have agreed to take your case, I wouldn’t have chased you to your parents’ house and I sure as hell wouldn’t be vouching for you to McClintock tomorrow, putting my credibility on the line.”

“Then why are you?” Malfoy snapped. “Just trying to save me, as is your hero’s custom?”

“Yeah, that’s it,” Harry said, trying not to examine his true motives too hard. “I’ve just got to be a hero.”

“You haven’t saved me enough?” Malfoy’s eyes were hard.

“Well, why would I stop now?” Harry said lightly. “What would the point have been in rescuing you before?”  Harry said it like a joke, but Malfoy’s face just hardened more.  

“Indeed,” He stood up and dumped the rest of his tea into the sink, “what was the point?”

“That isn’t what I meant—” Harry began, but Malfoy interrupted him, pausing by the door.

“Well,” said Malfoy, carefully, “perhaps you should have.” 

The words took a moment to sink in.  When they finally had, Malfoy was gone and the sound of running water told him he was inside the washroom.  Harry cursed under his breath and dumped out his tea, watching the brown liquid collect in the sink with droplets from Malfoy’s before making its way down the drain.

….

….

….

While Malfoy did whatever it was he was doing in the bathroom with the sink water running, Harry busied himself by tidying up his flat.  He was generally a tidy person, thanks to Aunt Petunia’s scolding voice that had never quite escaped his consciousness, but he still had a few odds and ends that he’d rather not have Malfoy see lying around, including his pants from that morning that had been discarded on the hallway floor somewhere between the bathroom and his bedroom.

As Harry moved to pick these up, balling them up tightly in his fist in case Malfoy could somehow see what he was doing, the horrifying realization of his situation began to dawn on him.

At the best, he’d brought a drug-addicted Death Eater into his house.

At the worst, he was now harboring a possibly wanted felon.

Suddenly self-conscious of his presence in his own home, Harry began to look at everything in his flat with a critical eye.  His mismatched furniture and the brown carpet that was bumping up in the corners had never bothered him before.  Now, nothing looked right.  What did people think when they came into the home of a Resident Healer and saw Mrs. Figg’s old pissed on couch as the living room centerpiece?

Also, the faint scent of pepperoni in the air may or may not have originated in Harry’s shoe pile by the door.

Panicking, Harry dashed into the kitchen and yanked open his odds and ends drawer, quickly locating the candle that Hermione had picked up for him at a craft show a year ago.  He’d never lit it, but the mason-jar holder with the  title “Ocean Breeze” superimposed on an image of seashells and starfish seemed promising.

“Incendio,” he whispered, casting a furtive glance over his shoulder.  The candle roared to life, nearly singing off his eyebrows, and Harry carefully carried the flaming jar into the living room and set it on the end table next to the couch.  Frantically waving his hand, he tried to waft the smell around the room, toward the couch that had never quite lost the odor of cat and to the pepperoni-scented shoe pile as the bathroom door clicked open.

Malfoy shuffled out, the look on his face daring Harry to say anything.  The pajama bottoms that the house-elf had packed for him were about two sizes too small and several inches too short, leaving little to the imagination.  They were covered with tiny dancing leprechauns and pots of gold.  The matching, skin tight flannel button-down had the number 52 on the back with name “MULLET” written in gold, block lettering. Malfoy was clutching his Martin Miggs’ duffel bag in a death grip.

“Ireland,” Harry said, raising his eyebrows.  He couldn’t help it.  Someone had to say something.

Ignoring him, Malfoy tossed his duffel bag onto the floor and sankdown onto the couch.  His forehead was wrinkled up in confusion.

“Did you root for them in the—”

“Shut up.”  Malfoy noticed the candle and the corners of his mouth turned upward. “Nice.”

Harry shrugged.  “Oh, you know,” he said, pointlessly.

“No,” said Malfoy, pulling his legs up onto the couch and tucking his St. Mungo’s slipper sock feet into the sheet-shrouded gap between the cushions.  “I don’t. Enlighten me.”

Realizing that what he’d said meant absolutely nothing, Harry shook his head and shrugged, feeling completely moronic.  How did Malfoy always manage to make him feel so stupid, even when he was being, for the most part, cordial?

Harry sat awkwardly on his own couch, body drawn taut, opposite from where Malfoy was tucked and sprawled, examining a split end in the candlelight.  The television would be such a great distraction but, knowing Malfoy, it would just turn into a series of annoying questions. Plus, Harry didn’t want to do anything that would further encourage electrocution.

“So,” Harry spoke into the silence.  “Can I get you anything? Pillows? Food?”

“Um, actually,” Malfoy said with a wince, “do you have a headache tonic?”  The potion must have started wearing off.  Users who ingested high doses often crashed hard, experiencing tremors, headaches, irritability and just a general sense of malaise and discomfort.  The easiest solution was, of course, another dose of Felix Felicis, but since that was completely out of the question, Malfoy had to find other ways to make himself comfortable.

“Sorry.”  Harry shook his head.  “With the damage done to your liver, I cannot advise you to take any potions.”

“What about those spells?” Malfoy asked pressing the bridge of his nose with two fingers.  “The ones Bones kept doing during detox?”

Harry frowned.  “You can remember that?”

Suddenly uncomfortable, Malfoy tensed up.  

“What else do you remember?”

Malfoy waved a hand around, vaguely.  “I remember some things.”  

Harry waited for him to explain, but when he didn’t, Harry simply dug out his wand.  Malfoy put his arms obediently out at his sides, used to Harry’s poking and prodding.  “I can’t do the Liver Healing,” Harry said.

Malfoy looked confused.

“You can relax,” Harry said.  Malfoy just looked at him.  “Your arms,” Harry said.  This didn’t seem to clarify anything, either.  “Just sit regular.”

“Oh.”  Malfoy blushed.  He crossed his arms uncomfortably across his chest.  “Okay. Get on with it.”

Harry hesitated.  “You know,” he said, lowering his wand, “since pain relief charms are mind-altering, it would actually be best for you if we avoided them altogether.”

Malfoy scowled.

“Let’s just determine if it is necessary, okay?” Harry asked. “What is your level of pain right now, on a scale of one to ten?”

“Ten.”

“Malfoy . . .”

“Fine,” he growled.  “Five.  I guess.”  Malfoy rolled his eyes.  He must have known that it wouldn’t be strong enough to warrant the pain charm.

“I appreciate your honesty,” Harry said.  “And, I really don’t recommend the charm.”

“Then just go away.”

Struck, Harry stood from the couch and began walking toward his room.

“Wait,” a voice called.  Harry turned.  “It’s fine.  I get it.”  Malfoy closed his eyes, as if admitting the following was painful. “And I don’t want anything mind altering, either.”

“That’s good,” said Harry, cautiously.

“I am trying to get better.”

Harry smiled. “I know.”

Vulnerable grey eyes turned to him.  “I mean it, Potter.  I can’t go on like this.”

Harry gave a small nod and waited.

“I just can’t believe I let it get this far.”

“Addiction is an illness, Malfoy—”

“That is bullshite, Potter,”  Malfoy snapped, his eyes glinting. “ And you know it.”

“I am a Healer, Malfoy,”  Harry said.  “And I am telling you that addiction is an illness.”

“What a crock.”  Malfoy glared at the candle.  “That’s a sorry excuse.  That’s the kind of rot those fuck wits in group would say.”  Malfoy raised his voice in a parody of a woman’s, “Oh!  I’m so sick!  I can’t help it.  I have absolutely no control over swallowing three bottles of Firewhisky at breakfast!”

Harry stepped back into the room and lowered himself down on the couch.  “So, you’re saying you are fully in control of yourself, then?”

“Obviously,” he said, waving his arm around and knocking a coaster onto the carpet. “It’s not like I’m under Imperius, for fuck’s sake.”

“So,” said Harry, “let me ask you something.”  Sweat dripped down Malfoy’s temples and the blond hastily reached up and wiped it away. “What happened tonight?”

“When?”

“When you chose to steal two bottles of Felix Felicis and run to your mother’s house?”

The corners of Malfoy’s mouth turned down.  He shrugged.

“Well?”

“I don’t _know_.”

“Help me understand what happened here, Malfoy,” Harry said, “because I’m not really sure I get it.  You were making progress.  You’d already gone through one hell of a detox.  Why de-rail?”

“Because.”

“Because why?”  Harry asked.  “Tomorrow, I have to plead your case to the the Head Healers.   I need to know if our program is actually one that you can benefit from.”  

“I can!”  Malfoy looked up at him with pleading eyes.  “I have to finish it or McGonagall won’t take me back.”  He swallowed.  “And my parents . . . ”

“But you’re telling me that you have full control over yourself.  That you rationally chose to break the rules, steal and use.”  Harry blinked.  “Why would you do that?”

“Stop it.”

“Malfoy—”

“It was just a bad moment, alright?” he snapped.  “I’ll try harder.”

“Just admit that you don’t have any control over your addiction.”  Harry thought he was being perfectly reasonable.  Malfoy seemed to find the pill balls on the arm of the couch extraordinarily interesting. “Malfoy-—”

“What?  And stop saying my name.”

“Just admit—”

“I just think it’s a cop out, okay?”  Malfoy gave up on the pilling couch and dropped his head into his fist, miserably.  

“The way to regain control is to first admit that, right now, you don’t have any.”

“I _can_ control myself.”

“That’s a nice thought,” Harry said, “but it isn’t true and you know it.  If it was, you wouldn’t be in this mess.”

Malfoy dropped his head into his hands and rubbed at his temples.  “Fine,” he sighed.  “Fine.  I don’t.  I don’t have any control. You want the truth? If you put a vial of Felix on that table it’d be gone in ten seconds.”

Harry grinned.  Malfoy raised his head from his hands and gave him a suspicious look.  “I still don’t see how this is going to help me.”

“It will,” Harry promised.  “And as bad as things got for you today, I feel really hopeful.”  Standing, Harry stretched and placed and hand on Malfoy’s shoulder.  “You should, too.”

Grey eyes regarded him carefully, then Malfoy broke into a tiny, reluctant smile. “Thanks, Potter.”

….


	3. Chapter 3

A one-eyed Tempus Charm revealed that it was 3:07 a.m.  Harry had to be at work in less than four hours and he couldn’t, for the life of him, sleep.  Stretching, he decided that a glass of water might do the trick.

Harry tiptoed blindly through the darkened living room, trying his best not to make any noise to wake Malfoy.  As he approached the kitchen, his bare arms encountered a draft and he shivered.  It hadn’t been that cold when he’d gone to bed, and he was certain that he had turned the heat on.

When he stepped in the kitchen, a blurry light in the corner of the room caught his attention.  Gasping, he grabbed for his wand and felt around on the wall for the light-switch, flicking it upward and bathing the room in a yellow glow.

“Thank God,” said a voice from the floor through chattering teeth.

“What the hell?” Harry asked the figure on his floor.  “Malfoy?”

“What?”

“What the hell are you doing?”

“I,” said the drawling voice with as much dignity as one could muster through aggressive shivering, “am trying to _read._ ”

Harry wondered if he had, in fact, fallen asleep and was in the midst of a very odd dream.  “In the refrigerator?”

“Well,” Malfoy said, haughtily, “you didn’t show me how to use the lights.  And since I no longer have access to a _wand . . ._ ” 

As Harry walked closer, he could see that Malfoy had dragged the sheets and pillows from the living room couch into the kitchen and made a sort of nest for himself on the floor.  “Aren’t you freezing?”

Harry could feel, more than see, Malfoy’s icy glare.

“Get up,” Harry said, too tired to be polite.  “I’ll show you where the lights are.”

Malfoy scrambled to his feet, clutching the sheet around him like a cape, teeth clacking together madly.  “Thank God,” he said again.

“Why aren’t you sleeping?” Harry asked with a yawn, groping around for the lamp pull.  Snagging it, he clicked the lamp on and a soft glow warmed a circle on the couch.  A moving pile of sheets landed on the couch a moment later, huddling up into a small, blond ball.

“You try sleeping on this thing,” said Malfoy, gesturing a sheet-covered limb toward the couch.  “It smells like a kneazle’s privates.”

“Perhaps you’d prefer the accommodations in the Malfoy Family Peacock Pen?”

Malfoy grumbled something that Harry couldn’t hear, but he was pretty sure the prat got the message.

“Here,” said Harry, handing Malfoy another, heavier blanket.  He took it and quickly wrapped it around himself.  Two pale hands snaked out of an opening, bringing a battered book up to grey eyes.

“What’s that?” Harry asked, squinting to try and read the title.

Malfoy shrugged and turned the cover away from him.

“Do you want a glass of water or anything?”

Malfoy huffed and lowered the book.  “If you don’t mind, I am _trying_ to read.”

“Fine,” Harry raised him arms. “Sorry.  You should really try and get some sleep, though.”

“I’m not the one who has to be to work in the morning.”

“True,” Harry snapped, “but if you show up at the clinic looking like a bedraggled mess, McClintock might not think you’re worth it.”

Malfoy looked up at Harry and flashed a huge, doe-eyed smile.  “But _you_ think I’m worth it.  Don’t you, Potter?”

Harry sighed. “Go to bed, Malfoy.”

“Besides,” he called after Harry’s retreating back, “I figure looking as pathetic as possible could help garner a little sympathy, you know?”

Harry rolled his eyes, but couldn’t help thinking that Malfoy may have had a point.

“It always worked so well for you.” 

Harry turned around to scowl at him.  Malfoy was still sitting, nice-as-you-please in his sheet nest.  He flashed him an innocent smile.

“Sleep tight, Potter.” 

….

….

….

It wasn’t easy to convince McClintock to let Malfoy back into the clinic.  Harry had woken up exhausted and shoved the moody, bitchy professor and his Martin Miggs duffel bag into the Floo.

Malfoy looked like shit, but was repentant and polite toward McClintock.  Harry vouched for him and explained that his actions the night before were a result of his condition and that, since then, he’d taken two very important steps toward recovery.  McClintock was wary but, in the end, he agreed to allow Malfoy one more chance.  To his dismay, however, McClintock contacted McGonagall and told her about the relapse.

“That was a part of the deal,” Harry said, as they walked from McClintock’s office back to Malfoy’s room.  “Successful completion of the program.”

“But I’m not done!” Malfoy hissed.

“Yes, and relapse is not actually a step toward sobriety.”

“I know, but—”

“You’re in,” said Harry,  “so stop whining and be thankful.”  It was funny, Harry thought, how comfortable he felt speaking to Malfoy in such a candid manner.  He would _never_ treat another patient the same way.  He wondered if Baddock and Susan would disapprove.

They opened the door to Malfoy’s room and Harry dropped his duffel bag on the floor.  The room was in a state of disarray after being searched for clues to his disappearance.  Malfoy’s eyes zeroed in on his Recovery Journal, which was lying wide open in the center of his bed.

Searching eyes locked with Harry’s and narrowed, then went back to the journal.  

There was no reason to be guilty, Harry knew.  What he’d done had been in Malfoy’s best interest, but, still.  It felt like he had somehow betrayed him.

“Look.”  Harry sighed.  “I’m sorry, but I had to read it—“

“Wait.”  Malfoy tensed. “You _read_ it?”  He took a step toward the journal and slammed it shut.  “ _You_ read it?”

Flustered, Harry realized that Malfoy’s original look had not been one of accusation-but it certainly was now.  “I had to—”

“Oh, you were forced, were you?” Malfoy spat.  “Someone stuck a wand to your neck and—”

“Calm down—”

“Calm _down?”_ Malfoy was raging.  “I’m not twelve years old, you arse hat.  Don’t tell me to _calm down_.”

Harry’d had enough.  He had just put his job and credibility on the line for the snot-nosed brat and even let him stay in his house.  Not to mention the fact that Malfoy finished the last of Harry’s Fruit-Blasted Wheatios, then claimed to have “never seen” the prize at the bottom of the box. 

Without another word, Harry turned from the man and shut the door behind him with an embarrassing amount of force.

….

….

….

“You read his Recovery Journal?”  Susan shook her head.  “Harry!”

“I had to, Susan!”  Harry thought Susan would take his side, but for the second time that week, she threw her lot in with Baddock.  This time Harry was sure Baddock was opposing him just to be contrary.  Reading the Recovery Journal was justifiable.  It was a life or death situation.

“Told you it was an invasion of privacy,” Baddock said in a singsong voice, clearly pleased to have Susan on his side again. “Tell yourself what you want, but Malfoy will never see it your way.”

“I did the right thing.”  Harry scowled.  If Hermione were here, _she_ would have sided with him.  But, to be fair, every time Hermione had tattled on Harry or Ron for “their own good” they had never given her the benefit of the doubt.  In hindsight, she had done the right thing, but Harry hadn’t been mature enough to see her side of things.   And Malfoy, while skilled in certain areas, had always been severely lacking in maturity.  He sighed heavily.  “Fine,” he said in defeat.  “Tell me what to do.”

“Why should I?”  Baddock asked, crossing his legs and spreading his arms out.  “I helped you before and what did I get out of it?”

“Help me this time and I swear I’ll get you something good.”

“Probably the mixed nuts basket.”  Susan laughed.  Harry froze.  “Oh,” she said slowly, “that wasn’t what you were going to get him, were you?”

“No!” Harry said too quickly.

“Potter!” Baddock scoffed.  “What gave you the idea that I liked nuts in the first place?”

“You steal mine all the time!” Harry protested.  Baddock was totally lying.  He definitely liked nuts.  “And you’re always looking at it.”

“I wasn’t looking at the nuts.”

“You were so,” said Harry.  “And besides, that wasn’t what I was going to get you.”

“Really . . .” Baddock and Susan exchanged a look.  “Whatever, Potter.  I’m feeling generous today, so here’s my advice.”

Harry signaled with his hand for Baddock to get a move on.

“Apologize.” He shrugged.

“That’s it?”

“Mean it,” said Baddock.  “Get off your self-righteous horse and think about it from Malfoy’s perspective.  His primary concern right now is not his own safety.  He’s just trying to survive this and he’s navigating through it any way he knows how; trying to cope with things that he isn’t capable of coping with, yet. You might be thinking about his safety, but—if I know Malfoy—his primary concern in all of this is avoiding embarrassment.”

It was shocking what a terrible bedside manner Baddock had because, really, the man could write a book on stuff like this.

“He’s always put way too much stock in how others see him.”

Susan looked thoughtful.  “You especially, Harry.”  She rubbed her chin.  “Malfoy _always_ wanted to look good in front of you.”

….

….

….

The more Harry thought about it, the more it made sense.  And as he thought about it, his respect for Malfoy began to grow.  Admitting weakness, like Malfoy had, was an incredibly difficult thing for anyone to do.  But admitting weakness to someone that, on some level, Malfoy had considered an enemy and had competed against for years, was on a level of bravery all its own.

There was a show Aunt Petunia used to watch about women in America getting makeovers for their high school reunion.  When the camera teams filmed the parties, they were full of men and women dressed in their best outfits, bragging about their children and successful jobs and—all in all—trying to look like they had “made it” in the world.

For someone like Malfoy who had been raised with every opportunity, was intelligent, talented and had no doubt planned for a powerful life from a young age,  his current situation had to feel like a downright humiliating defeat.  And despite his addiction, he had appeared—to Harry at least—to have achieved all that, and now, to have the entire life he’d built for himself hedging on the completion of this program must have felt as certain a foundation as building a castle on quicksand.

To top that off, Malfoy was convinced that his success was due to Felix Felicis.  In order to continue to have that success, he had to ditch the Felix.  On some level, it must have seemed laughably impossible.

Harry believed he could do it. 

Malfoy needed to believe he could do it.  And he needed to stop caring so much about what others thought about him.

No.  What he needed was to be able to see himself as a successful and talented person, independent of the Felix Felicis.  

If only Malfoy could see himself the way everyone else saw him.

….

….

….

“You still haven’t spoken in group.”

Malfoy said nothing, instead staring at the Rubik’s cube that Harry had grudgingly allowed him to hold during their session.  It seemed that when Malfoy had something to occupy his hands, he tended to open up more.  Even though Malfoy was slowly wrecking Harry’s imagined progress on the green-sided cube, Harry told himself that it was worth it if it would help Malfoy.

Sacrifices.  The story of Harry’s life. 

The blond turned the cube, slowly transforming Harry’s work into what he suspected was an orange M.

“I’m working on it,” he finally said without looking up.  A lock of blond hair fell in his eyes and he shook his head slightly, tossing it out of the way.

Harry had looked in some of McClintock’s old books on ways to get people with social anxiety to open up.  One of the ideas that he found interesting was the use of props.  Harry thought this might work for Malfoy, especially with his tendency to feel more comfortable holding objects in his hands.

The book said that the patient should bring in an object that meant something to him or her and, kind of like Primary School Show-and-Tell, talk about what the object is and explain the importance of it.

Harry had told Malfoy to bring something with him today for their one-on-one session, but he claimed to have “forgotten.”  With the care package that Narcissa had left, Malfoy had more than enough material to use.  

“I want you to bring an object to the next group session,” Harry said.  “In fact,” he ignored Malfoy’s rude snort, “I demand that you bring one.”

“Or what?” Malfoy asked in a bored drawl.  “You’ll tell on me to McClintock?”

“Yes,” Harry snapped.  “I will.  One of the expectations is for you to participate in group sessions, not just sit through them.”

“I have nothing to share.”

“I don’t believe that.”  Harry shuffled through Malfoy’s file.  “In fact, I think you have a lot to share.”

“Is that so?” Malfoy asked lightly, snapping another cube into place.  

Harry had been dreading this part. “Yes,” he said.  “Also, since you haven’t participated up until this point, you and another patient have been assigned to work on a creative project together.”

Malfoy lowered the Rubik’s cube and finally gave Harry his full attention.  “Excuse me?”

“Well, everyone is going to participate, but your future in this program depends upon your ability to work cooperatively.  Between you and me, I think McClintock will be watching very carefully to see if you are a “good fit for this program.”  You are to create a project with Chelsea that explores your role in this world without your addiction.”

Scrubbing at his eyes, Malfoy let out a loud, audible sigh.  “You’re joking, Potter.”

“I’m not.”

“That creepy little girl who stares at me all the time?”  he asked.  “Her?”

“That’s right,” Harry said.  “And her name is Chelsea.”

….

….

….

“I was standing on this dirt road, mate . . . “ Clark’s thin legs were tightly crossed and the top leg kept tapping the floor as he bounced it up and down, “Didn’t know how in hell I got there.  Couldn’t remember . . . couldn’t remember nothin’, man. Didn’t even know my own name.”

Malfoy’s posture  was different during the next group session.  He was sitting tightly upright in his usual white, fake-leather armchair, slightly set apart from the rest of the group.  His eyes kept flicking toward Chelsea, then back at the object that he had tightly clenched in his hands.

Harry was going to try and ease him into talking but, apparently, Malfoy was eager to get started—or perhaps just eager to get it over with—because as soon as Clark finished his story, he spoke up. 

“How do you do.”  Malfoy’s voice came out soft and quiet.  All eyes immediately swiveled over to him in shock. If he was uncomfortable, though, he didn’t show it.  Malfoy cleared his voice and continued.  “My name is Professor Draco Malfoy.”

A few of the patients exchanged raised eyebrows at the title.  Clark scoffed loudly.

“I brought something to share.”  Malfoy started to open his hand when he was interrupted.

“Wait a minute,” Clark called out.  “You haven’t told us why you’re here.  What’s your addiction?”

Malfoy looked at Harry as if he hadn’t expected the question.  Then he chose to ignore it.  “It’s a sickle.”  He opened up his hand and the tiny silver coin glinted in his palm.

The look on his face could only be described as smug.  Heart plummeting, Harry realized that Malfoy hadn’t taken the assignment seriously, after all.

“Hey,” Clark snapped. “You didn’t answer my question, _Professor_.”  He looked over at Joe who was glaring at Malfoy.  “You’ve sat in here like a king on a throne the last few weeks, listening to all of our stories. So tell us, why are you here?”

Malfoy narrowed his eyes and closed his fist around the sickle, pulling it back towards him.  “I was told that my attendance was required.”

“Don’t play stupid, Death Eater—”

“Clark,” Harry interrupted in a warning voice.

“No, Potter.”  Malfoy put a hand out to stop him, keeping his eyes pinned on Clark.  “He obviously has some _very_ important feelings and opinions to share with us all.  Let’s hear them.”

“It isn’t fair,” Joe interrupted, coming to his friend’s defense.  “The rest of us have to follow the rules and if _we_ break them we get kicked out of the program.  You don’t do shit, then you leave and you can just walk right back in?” Joe’s glare moved from Malfoy to Harry.

Malfoy smirked.  “Is that jealousy I sense?”  He stretched and placed his hands behind his head, crossing his legs, casually.

Harry could feel the anger rising amongst the patients in the room.  He wanted to stop Malfoy, but the prat was actually _speaking_ , so Harry couldn’t, in good conscience, tell him to stop.

Clark opened his mouth to reply and was cut off by Chelsea.

“Jealousy?”  Chelsea asked Malfoy, her dark eyes wide.  “You’re sick and you aren’t getting better.   Why would we be jealous of that?”

Malfoy just looked at her.

Chelsea then let her eyes fall on Clark and Joe.  “He is sick,” she said, gesturing toward Malfoy with a thumb. “Lay off.”

“But—”

“I don’t need you to defend me,” growled Malfoy in embarrassment.  “And I’m not sick, either.”

“Then why are you in here?” Chelsea asked him, looking truly curious.  Malfoy just stared back at her, as if he couldn’t decide whether backing down would be worse than answering.

“Tell her,” Harry encouraged with a nod.

For a second, Malfoy looked like he was just going to spit it out, then he hesitated. “You people are pathetic.”

“If we’re pathetic, so are you,” Joe said.

Malfoy stood up and pelted the sickle at Harry with enough force to cause injury. Harry’s seeker reflexes kicked in, however, and he quickly snatched the coin.  

As soon as he had, Harry stood.  He and Malfoy faced each other for a moment, waiting for the other to speak first.

Malfoy finally opened his mouth.  Then closed it.  With a final scowl, he turned from the group and left, slamming his door shut when he reached his room at the end of the hall.

Harry sat down in defeat.

After a discussion with the group in which Harry threatened probation on anyone who brought up Malfoy’s Death Eater past, therapy continued as usual.  Malfoy’s absence from the group was no difference than his usually silent presence, though Harry could sense that there was a sort of excitement in the air afterwards.

“I don’t get it,” Marsha said after a while.  Harry cast her a weary glance. “We all know he’s an addict.  Who does he think he’s fooling, anyway?”

….

….

….

“It isn’t their business,” Malfoy said, tossing the sickle into the air and catching it with his usual, practiced grace.

“This is therapy, Malfoy, not social hour,” Harry said.  “So, actually, it _is_ their business.  Sharing with them plays a part in their recovery and in yours.”

Malfoy let out an exasperated growl.  “Look, Potter,” he said, his voice sounding much more annoyed than before. “That just isn’t how I was raised.  We—Malfoys, Slytherins, whatever—we don’t go about airing our dirty laundry in public.  Especially to people like _that_.”

“People like you, you mean.”

“Yes, Potter.  People _just like me._ ”  Malfoy rolled his eyes.  

“You were concerned that you’d never regain the ability to speak publicly.  My assumption is that your trouble with group therapy is not that those people know you’re an addict—they do, by the way—but it’s with the anxiety you have over public speaking.”

Malfoy turned to look at the door, then back at Harry.  He crossed his arms. “So?”

“If you ever want your job back—”

“Oh, back at this, are we?”

“—then you need to do what I ask you to do and— _Goddammit!—_ take it _seriously_.”  Harry smacked a hand against his desk and Malfoy jumped slightly.  “If these people don’t matter to you, then why should their opinion matter?”

“It doesn’t.”

“Then what is the problem?”  Harry recalled Susan saying it was _Harry’s_ opinion that mattered.   “I already know you’re an addict.  And so do they.  Yet, you insist upon hiding your feelings.”

Swallowing tightly, Malfoy made a face.

“Which, really, kind of makes you a pussy.” 

Mafoy nearly choked and his eyes bulged.  “What?”

“You heard me.”  Harry raised an eyebrow and, to his surprise, Malfoy started laughing.

“I should report you,” he said.

“Please do,” Harry replied.  “In the meantime, stop being such a twat.”

Malfoy tried to hide a grin behind a shocked offense.  “You’re foul.”

“And tomorrow you’re going to take the exercise seriously.  You _will_ tell the group why you are here.”

“I hate the group.”

“I know.”

“And I hate you even more.”

Harry smirked.  “I know.”

….

….

….

“Why are you here?” Clark asked him straight out at the start of the next session.

“Because I have an addiction.” Malfoy was standing with as much dignity as he could muster, despite the two circles of color high on his cheeks.  He gave a challenging look to Clark and then turned his gaze onto every other member of the group, as if daring them to say anything about it.

“Finally,” Clark muttered, sitting back in his seat.

“About ruddy time,” said Joe.

Marsha gave Malfoy a sharp nod of approval.  Harry could see the tension drain from his shoulders.

“What are you addicted to?” Joe asked.

“Bet it’s Muggle drugs,” Clark said with a smirk.  Harry could see his eyes linger on Malfoy’s left arm.  “Figures why he’d try and hide it.”

Being on Muggle Drugs must have seemed worse than the truth because Malfoy immediately jumped to his own defense.  “I am _not_ ,” he said in a haughty voice.

“Then what are you on?”

“I’m telling you, Joe,” Clark said, loud enough for everyone to hear.  “That’s why he’s been hiding it.  It’s got to be one of those Muggle—”

“Felix.”  Malfoy crossed his arms tightly over his chest and looked at the floor.  The paper object he’d brought with him was getting crumpled in his hand.

“ _Felix?”_ Joe asked after a moment, leaning forward. “Felix Felicis?” 

Swallowing, Malfoy gave a nod.

“You utter liar,” snapped Clark.  He turned to Harry. “This is such bullshite.”

“It isn’t.”  Flashing grey eyes pinned themselves on Clark.  “It’s the truth.”

“Come on, mate! No one’s addicted to Felix Felicis.” Joe shook his head.  “You can’t even get your hands on stuff like that.”

“Is Felix Felicis even real?” Chelsea asked.  She tilted her head to the side, letting her long, brown hair fall softly over her shoulder.  “I always thought it was an urban legend.”

“It’s not.”  Malfoy sounded uncomfortable.

“Yeah? How did you get it, then?” Clark demanded.  Malfoy looked over at Harry. There was a vulnerability there but it was currently outshined by a bold look of determination. Harry was about to tell Malfoy that he didn’t have to answer the question, but Malfoy looked away from him.

“I made it.”

Joe and Clark exchanged a look.  “You brew?” Joe asked, raising an eyebrow.

“You’re a Potions Master,” Marsha said, slowly, her eyes lighting with recognition. “Of course.  Malfoy.”  She shook her head slightly.  “You teach my nephew at Hogwarts.”

Malfoy was now blushing furiously.  

“Everything said in here is confidential,” Harry felt the need to add.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say anything.”  Marsha flipped a dismissive hand.  “You have more than enough leverage on me to humiliate me right back, anyway.”

Deeming this true, Malfoy lifted his chin just slightly.

“So,” Harry interrupted, taking pity on him.  “What did you bring to share with us today?”

Malfoy relaxed his hand where a crumpled photo lay.  He smoothed it out and held it in his hands, just looking at it.  

“Malfoy?”

Harry noticed that he now looked frozen, his eyes glued to the photograph.

“This was a bad idea,” Malfoy finally said in a strained voice.  Harry noticed that his hands were shaking.

“What is it?” Clark taunted.  “A picture of your Death Eater friends?”

Before Harry could tell Clark he was on probation, Malfoy’s eyes snapped up. The anger radiating from them was tangible. “Yes, actually. Got a problem with it?”

That seemed to get everyone’s attention, Harry included. He slightly lifted his head, trying to peek at the picture, but Malfoy kept it tightly pressed against the chest of his red St. Mungos hoodie.

Finally, Malfoy turned the picture around, still keeping it close to his chest. Everyone leaned forward to get a better look.  

In the middle of the picture was a young Malfoy, about eleven years old, bright eyed and blond-haired in his impeccable Slytherin robes. He looked just the way Harry had remembered him in school except his usual sneer was replaced by an excited grin.  On one side of him stood Goyle with an orange Celebird flapping about in his hands that kept squawking out mouthfuls of confetti.  Crabbe’s eyes were comically widened in distress as he got blasted in the face by the choked-up confetti chunks while struggling to push Malfoy away from him.  A hat in the shape of a grizzly bear flashed the words “BEAR-THDAY BOY!” and was forced onto Crabbe’s head by the blond.  The scene ended with Malfoy collapsing against Crabbe in laughter and thumping him on the chest. 

“That’s me,” Malfoy whispered, pointing unnecessarily to the jumping blond.  “And these were my best friends in school.  Vince Crabbe,” he pointed to the Bear-thday Boy and his voice cracked, “and Greg Goyle.”  

Harry got a cold feeling in the pit of his stomach.  He suspected he knew where this story was going.

“ _Were_?” Chelsea asked.  Harry had also picked up on Malfoy’s use of past tense. “What happened?”

Malfoy let out a mirthless laugh.  “Well, it is rather difficult to maintain a friendship when you’re responsible for this one’s death,” he pointed at Crabbe, “and this one’s Azkaban sentence.”

“You killed someone?” Joe asked, looking suddenly uneasy.

Malfoy turned to Harry, his eyes now pleading.  He shook his head slightly.  

Harry gave him what he hoped was an encouraging nod, but Malfoy positively crumpled in response.  His lips were pressed tightly together and he was still shaking his head back and forth.  Then, like he had before, Malfoy fled.

When he reached the end of the hallway, though, he turned about-face and began stomping right back to his chair.  He stopped behind it and braced himself against the backrest, allowing his eyes to sweep over every person in the room.  “I didn’t kill him,” he said quickly, his voice higher-pitcher than usual.

“Then—”

Still gripping the picture in his left hand, Malfoy reached for his sleeve, yanking it up and flashing the Dark Mark to the room of stunned patients.  “This did.”  He quickly pulled the sleeve back down and leaned heavily against the chair with one hand on his forehead.  “Or I did.  I don’t know.”  Malfoy turned away from everyone, then quickly turned back.  “Yes,” he growled.  “I _do_ know.  He joined because of me.  Crabbe.”  He opened his hand and thumbed Crabbe’s image. “And he died because I was supposed to watch out for him.  I was supposed to protect him and I didn’t.” 

“Malfoy—” Harry felt obligated to say something. “Crabbe died because he was trying to kill me!”

“You don’t know anything about it, Potter.”  

“I was _there!”_

This seemed to elicit a reaction from the room, but Harry was too fired up to notice.  

“You were there for, what?”  Malfoy ran a hand through his hair in agitation, “ten minutes?  I was with him that whole year.  It wasn’t what it looked like.” 

“So, what?” Harry knew enough about self-blame to notice the signs.  “You had him under Imperius, did you?  You forced him to conjure Fiendfyre?”

“No,” Malfoy growled, pounding a fist against the chair, “but I . . .” his voice trailed off.  “There’s more to it.  You don’t know the half of it. Crabbe was—” he paused, searching for a word, “impressionable.  He didn’t know any better.  He —”

“Yes. He.  Did.  For God’s sakes, Malfoy.  Crabbe was stupid but he wasn’t _that_ stupid.”

“You shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, Potter.” Malfoy gave him a funny look.

Harry just stared at him.

“I’m going,” Malfoy finally whispered.  His look dared Harry to stop him.

Harry didn’t.

….

….

….

That night, Malfoy didn’t come to dinner.

Harry knocked on his door, carrying a plate.  When Malfoy didn’t answer, Harry used his wand to let himself in.  The shades were drawn and a towel had been thrown over the magical light orb in the corner of the room.  The light orbs had been charmed to turn off during sleeping hours only.

Malfoy was curled up in bed, the scant light casting a weak glow over his face as he stared vacantly at his exposed Dark Mark.

“Hey,” said Harry, softly, helping himself to the chair beside Malfoy’s bed and setting the leftovers onto the bedside table.  Dirty tissues drifted from the table to the floor, adding to an impressive pile.  “I brought you dinner.”

“Not hungry.”

“You have to eat something,” Harry said.  “Or it will affect the rate of your healing.”

“I don’t care anymore.”  He dropped his arm to the side and looked up at Harry.  “I can’t do it.”

“Can’t do what?”

Malfoy’s face contorted and he turn it downward, burying it in the crook of his arm.  “What am I going to do?” he asked, sounding helpless.  “I just want to give up but I _can’t._  I just want to go on taking the potion but I _can’t_ because there’s no way for me to get the bloody ingredients now that everyone knows and is watching.”

“Malfoy—”

“It isn’t _fair_.”  His voice cracked.  “I wasn’t hurting anyone.”

“Just yourself.”

“So _what_?” Malfoy sniffled and then coughed.  “I should be allowed to hurt myself if I want to.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Because I don’t have a _choice_.”

“That’s right,” Harry snapped, annoyed at seeing Malfoy like this. “You _don’t._  Not anymore.  Your only choice now is recovery.”

“But—”

“You said yourself that you didn’t want to use anymore.”

“Well, now I do.”

“So—”

“Just, SHUT UP, Potter!”  Malfoy yelled, pounding a fist against the mattress. “It doesn’t mean I don’t want to get better, I just _hate this so much_.  It’s just _so hard_.  I don’t want to do it anymore!  Any of it!”

“Any of what?”

“Anything.  Life shouldn’t be this hard.”

Harry scowled. “Is that what you think?  What gave you that rubbish idea?”

Malfoy shrugged.

“Life _is_ hard.”

“Yours isn’t,” Malfoy grumbled. “Yours is perfect.”

That was it.  Yes, Harry understood that Malfoy was in a very selfish state of mind, but this was just too far.  “You can’t be that stupid!” Harry stood up and began pacing.  “Or, I don’t know.  Maybe you _are_.”

“I should really report you.”

Harry ignored him.  “I had a Dark Wizard after my life from the age of two!  I had a—”

“Well, I had a Dark Wizard living in my home—”

“I had one living in my _head_ , Malfoy!”  Harry tried to steady his breathing.  “Reading my thoughts, controlling my emotions.”

“What are you talking about, Potter?” Malfoy looked uncomfortable.

“You’ve heard of Horcruxes, yes?”

Malfoy just stared at him.  “Obviously.  The whole world has read of your great and heroic defeat.”

“Did you know that I was a Horcrux?”

Malfoy frowned.  “That’s impossible.  A Horcrux has to be an object.”

“Nagini was a Horcrux.”

Malfoy’s eyes drifted warily up to Harry’s scar and locked themselves there.  “What are you saying, Potter?”  His voice shook uneasily.  “You’re—?  He’s still . . .”

Harry sighed and plopped back down in the chair.  Malfoy drew away from him, very slightly.  “No.”  Harry shook his head.  “No, I killed it. Him.”

The blond shook his head back and forth, one hand clawing at his sheets.  “I saw Longbottom kill that snake, Potter.  He had to chop it to bits.”

“Not ‘bits.” _What a dramatic ninny._ “He had to kill it.”

“And you are? What? A ghost?”

Harry hadn’t anticipated getting into all of this.  He pinched the bridge of his nose.  “It’s a long story.”

“Well, you brought it up,” Malfoy pointed out.

“True enough,” said Harry.  “Are you sure you want to hear it?”

Malfoy’s eyes lit up, and he nodded warily.  

“Fine.”  Harry looked over his curled up form.  It felt as though he was about to read Teddy a bedtime story. “Hmm.  I rather like you like this,” he mused.

That snapped Malfoy out of it.  “Just get on with it.”

Harry told Malfoy the whole story of the Deathly Hallows and how he had to sacrifice himself, of how his mother’s own sacrifice protected his life more than once and the role Malfoy’s mother played in his survival. Malfoy had obviously heard that part before, but that didn’t stop him from paying rapt attention as Harry described how she’d whispered to him, her voice barely more than a breath, and lied to the monster that she’d grudgingly called her master.

“You realize you’re the most important thing in her life,” Harry said. 

Malfoy nodded.  His eyes were sad.

“Things happened for a reason,” said Harry.  “I know you probably live with the regret of Crabbe’s death every day but, I’m telling you, there was nothing else you could have done.  You tried to stop him.”

“It was my fault they were even in there.”  Malfoy swallowed. “It should have been me.”

“Well, it wasn’t!”  Harry cried.  “It wasn’t meant to be you.  If it had been you, your mum would’ve turned me over to Voldemort and the war would have been lost.  Would that have been better?”

Malfoy shook his head.

“You were meant to live,” Harry said,  “and you have an incredible amount of potential, Malfoy, but you’ll never reach it if you don’t let go of the past.  Yes, you’ve made mistakes, but the war is over.  It’s not helping anything to punish yourself like this.  It isn’t going to undo what you did.  It isn’t going to bring Crabbe back. It won’t change any of it.”

“I was never punished at all.”

“Perhaps not so much by the Ministry, but you’ve been punished.”

“But I was helping.”  Malfoy pulled his glasses off and rubbed at his eyes, rolling over onto his back.

“What?”  Harry didn’t know what he meant.

Malfoy sighed and sat up, leaning against a folded pillow as a backrest. “I was trying to help,” he said, putting his glasses back on.  “That’s why I took the damn Felix in the first place.”

Harry just looked at him.

“Retribution.”  Malfoy waved a hand in the air and then dropped it in his lap.  “I know everyone thinks I was taking it to get ahead, but I wasn’t. Not at first.”  A pale hand rubbed along his left forearm as he spoke.  “I wanted to help others.  So I _did_. That’s why I started with the charities.” He looked up at Harry.  “People thought I was doing it to clear my name and, I suppose, on some level I was, but,” he shrugged, “I really just thought if I could do _good_ , do enough to help the families of the people I— you know.  That.  That it would be enough.”

“You were trying to help them?”

“Sort of.”  Malfoy snorted.  “I suppose it was selfish, in a way.  I thought that if I did enough, that I’d be able to move on.”

He looked at Harry.  “But I couldn’t.  It was never enough.”  Malfoy crinkled his forehead together.  “It had to be more.  Always more.  And then-things got out of hand so fast and by that point I just didn’t want to stop.  Because I was helping, you know? Or, so I told myself.  And then, of course, I couldn’t stop.”

“How pathetic though, right?” Malfoy continued with a slight frown, “That I can’t even do a good deed on my own.  It’s like I don’t even know how. It’s not in a Slytherin’s nature to be selfless, I suppose.” Malfoy gestured to the expanse of the room.  “This is the world’s way of punishing me for thinking I could ever be better than I am.”

“Oh, that’s rubbish, Malfoy, and you know it.”

“Do I?”  There was a hardness in his eyes.  He reached over and grabbed one of the balled up tissues off the bed table and wiped at his nose.  

“You’re better than you think you are.”  And as Harry said it, he realized it was true.  

“Yeah,” said Malfoy in disgust, “I hoped I was, too.  And look how that one played out.”

Harry frowned.  “You aren’t the first person to make a mistake and you aren’t the first with an addiction.  It doesn’t make you a bad person or a weak person.  It makes you a person.”  Harry pointed a finger in the direction of the hallway. “Those people out there are suffering, just like you are.  That doesn’t make them bad or pathetic.  They’re here because they’re trying.  They’re going to get better. And so are you.”

Malfoy gave him a grim smile.

“You know,” said Harry, “Susan Bones thought I should give up your case.  Have you work with Healer McClintock, instead.”

Malfoy’s look of outrage was almost comical.  He didn’t hold McClintock in such high regard after he had threatened to remove him from the program.

“But,” Harry continued, “I didn’t.  I know I’m not supposed to say this to a patient but, I really want to get to know you—as you are today.”  At Malfoy’s raised eyebrow, Harry blushed and blundered on. “And maybe it’s selfish that I kept your case when I knew our history made it impossible for me to be impartial but-I did.  And I can’t explain why.  But it just seems like-I don’t know.  It just isn’t right that you’re afraid to speak up in a group and—” Harry closed his eyes for a moment, inexplicably frustrated.  “You need to get your job back so I can be pissed off and jealous of you every time I visit Hogwarts.”

Malfoy was giving him a very strange look. 

“What?” Harry bit out.

“I think you may be a bit unbalanced.”

“I very well may be,” Harry said. He thumped Malfoy on the shoulder and made the blond jump.  “But I need you to get better because that’s just the way things are supposed to be.”

Harry gave Malfoy a hard look and waited for an answer.

“Um,” Malfoy said, finally.  “Okay?”

“Wonderful.”  Harry was hesitant to go, but he had probably bothered Malfoy enough for the evening, “Now, eat your peas and get some sleep.”

Malfoy gave him a tired grin.  “Yes, Healer.”

Harry left Malfoy to his leftovers and walked from the room.  As he did, he replayed every stupid desperate-sounding thing he’d just said to him. Embarrassing though the words were, the startling truth to them was what was really frightening.

….

….

….

The Leaky Cauldron was bustling with witches and wizards, as it always was on Fridays, transitioning from the Happy Hour to the After Hour Crowd.  Harry sipped on an Amber Butterbeer, listening to whatever pop group was currently playing on the WWN as he waited for his friends to show.

Ron arrived first, ducking into the men’s loo to quickly change out of his Auror uniform.  Even though he primarily conducted research for the Auror department, he was still outfitted in the same uniform as the other Aurors—and, Harry suspected—he enjoyed wearing it whenever he had the chance.

“Ron,” Harry grinned with a nod as his best friend slipped into the seat at the booth beside him.  Ron nodded to the waitress and motioned for an Amber Butterbeer.  He smiled back at Harry, his eyes more alive than usual.  “What’s up?  Harry asked.

“Well,” Ron said, casting a look to the left and to the right, “I was planning on waiting til the others got here and—crikey—Hermione’s going to kill me but, what the hell, right?”  Ron was practically bouncing up and down in his seat.

“What is it?”  The excitement was contagious and Harry felt himself grinning back.

“Well, Harry,” Ron placed a hand on Harry’s shoulder.  “I’m going to be a father.”

“What?” Harry nearly jumped out of his seat, then reached forward and grabbed Ron in a very manly embrace.  “That’s fantastic!”

“I know!” Ron was positively oozing happiness.  “Don’t tell Hermione I told you, mate!”

“She’s going to know,” Harry said.  “She knows everything.”

“Well, just act surprised, then.”

Harry agreed but, he knew that there was no fooling Hermione Granger-Weasley, especially when it came to news like this.  

Hermione, a mother and Ron, a father.  He couldn’t believe it.

“You’re going to make an amazing father,” Harry said, sincerely.

“You think so?” asked Ron, his eyes slightly worried.

“Absolutely, mate!”  Harry nodded.  “You’ll be just like your parents—and they’re the best.  Plus, you’re great with Teddy.”

“This’ll be my own, though,” Ron mused. 

They discussed the details of the pregnancy for a bit.  After about ten minutes, every person in the Leaky knew that Ron was going to become a father.

Harry hated to burst the bubble of excitement, but he had to ask.  “So, did you get a chance to look up Gricharak this week?”

“I told you I would, didn’t I?” Ron said, producing an entire file out of his bag.

“Woah,” said Harry.  “That’s his Ministry record?”  The file was nearly an inch thick.

Ron nodded.  “Malfoy may have had a point on this one.  The bloke’s been linked to a million different things, but the Ministry has never been able to catch him at it.  Plus he fronts a lot of charities—probably to stay on  their good side.”  He let out a disgusted snort.  “Wankers.”

Harry wasn’t sure if Ron meant Gricharak’s people or the Ministry or both, but he echoed the sentiment.  “So, what’s it say he’s been into?”

“Oh, tons of stuff,” said Ron.  “Gambling, bribery,” he flipped through the papers, “Potions dealing.”

Harry frowned and peered at the file, but it provided no further information.

“Say,” Ron murmured, “maybe that’s why he was hooking up with Malfoy.  They probably had some unsettled Potions debt or something.”

“You think Malfoy was in on it?” Harry asked, a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach as the pieces seemed to fall into place.

Ron gave him a pointed look.  “It’s Malfoy.  He’s _on Potions_.  Yes, Harry.  I do.”  Ron took a sip of his drink.  “To be honest, Harry, I’ll bet if I did a bit more digging on this one, I’d find enough on both of them to have them locked away.”

Harry just looked at him.  Ron raised an eyebrow.

“But you don’t want Malfoy locked away,” Ron said slowly, “do you?”

“He’s my patient,” Harry said, knowing the excuse was even lamer out loud than it had been in his head.  “And if he did do something, it was because of his addiction.  Azkaban doesn’t help rehabilitate people. It should be reserved for—“ Harry became flustered as he began the anti-Azkaban rant for which he was now famous, “murderers and insane people like Bellatrix LeStrange.  Not for some Potions Professor who couldn’t keep his hands off his own stock.”

Ron gave him a funny look. “But if Malfoy was selling it or brewing it for sale . . . that’s five years, right off the bat.  You know that.”

Harry sighed and dropped his hands. “I know.”  It was one of the most difficult things about working in the rehabilitation clinic.  The fact was, most of the people there had committed serious crimes to support their lifestyle.  Regardless of their intentions or desperation, the law was the law.

It was that sort of rigidity that had driven Harry away from Auror training and into the medical field.  Rounding up Death Eaters, like Greg Goyle, and locking them away for war crimes seemed like cruel and unnecessary punishment.  What Goyle probably needed more than anything was counseling and psychological attention for whatever horrors he had witnessed or inflicted under the threat of death and torture. Instead, barely more than a child, he was thrown into the most miserable place in the world, locked behind bars and forgotten by society. 

It was _wrong_.

It served no purpose but to breed more contempt between “criminals” and the Ministry.

And it was the kind of thing that had landed Harry on the front page of the Daily Prophet time and again for letting his anger run away with him in the middle of Ministry-sponsored events.  

At the beginning, Hermione had actually supported his outbursts, having agreed with Harry that the treatment of some of the convicted Death Eaters after the war was deplorable.  She continued to side with Harry until one night when he had publicly exploded over the cost of a ten-Galleon per person plate at the Ministry Peace Gala a year after the war.  

Harry had grumbled audibly about the price throughout all of the speeches and then, upon tasting his undeniably burned steak, he’d thrown his utensils down, tore the napkin from the neck of his dress robes and declared that “the steak would be more useful as coal.”  Then, to the embarrassment of everyone except Harry, he emptied his plate into the hands of a baffled house-elf, and told it to “go stoke the fires.”

When the woman at the ticket booth told Harry that the plate was non-refundable, a burst of untamed magic had shot through him and caused all of the potted Abyssinian Shrivelfigs to explode up and down the hallways.  This created a massive headache for St Mungos when over twenty Ministry officials were rushed to the hospital with a variety of shrunken body parts.

A picture of Harry scowling at his steak and slamming his fist down on the table appeared in the Daily Prophet the next day, accompanied by the headline, “Boy Who Lived: Millionaire Hero Flies into Rage over Food Cost; Shrinks Ministry Officials.” 

After that, Hermione began looking at Harry with sad, knowing eyes and slipping him a variety of cards “in case he ever needed to talk with someone.”

At work, Shacklebolt flat out told Harry that he needed to get psychological help or walk away from Auror training. Harry had almost bitten off his own tongue trying not to tell Shacklebolt where he could go stick his ruddy training.  Then, when he’d rounded a corner of the hallway and flashed Shacklebolt two very identical rude gestures, he’d almost been relieved to be escorted from the premises by two security guards.

Upon further reflection that night, Harry had decided to phone one of the numbers that Hermione had left him.  He’d made his first appointment with Healer McClintock a week later and, after extensive therapy, had realized that walking out on Kingsley was the best thing he had ever done.  He was sorry to have abandoned Ron, but it was for the best. Being at St Mungos had opened Harry’s eyes to the kind of hero that he truly wanted to be: an _actual_ life-saver, not a “savior,” and certainly not a “vanquisher.” 

Harry still got inexplicably angry every now and again and took it hard when he failed to save a life, but, overall, working at St Mungos had helped Harry to come to peace with the fact that so many things in the world were truly out of his hands. Some things were just destined—meant to be—and dwelling on losses was a disrespectful way to honor those who had died. 

As for the rest of it—the burned steaks, long lines in the grocery stores, crowds asking for autographs, noisy neighbors—it just wasn’t that serious.

….

….

….

“PSTKNSIA”

Harry had rearranged the letters for the third time on his folded up bit of the Daily Prophet, but this particular Word Scramble continued to elude him.  He looked up briefly to make sure that McClintock wasn’t nearby since, technically, Harry was supposed to be watching the patients while they worked on their collaborative projects. Aside from Clark and Marsha who were arguing in whispered tones over whether “endless tunnel of darkness” was too cliché a phrase for their poem, everyone else was sealed up in their own private sound bubble and didn’t really need Harry for anything.

“Two vowels,” he muttered, reaching beside him for his coffee.  “It shouldn’t be that difficult.”

Harry's fingers grasped thin air.  Confused, he turned to look at the table where his coffee had been.  Looking up, he saw Malfoy standing mere inches away, grinning cheekily, the scent of coffee on his breath.

Harry eyes widened as Malfoy tipped the cup over, demonstrating its emptiness.

“You bastard!”  Harry hissed, then looked around quickly to make sure he hadn’t been overhead.

Malfoy waggled his eyebrows twice, then tossed the empty paper cup into the bin behind him.

Harry reached forward and shoved Malfoy in the chest before he could register that _You. Can’t. Do. That. To. Patients._

Malfoy stumbled back from Harry’s shove, then grinned even wider.  “Just another item to add to my long list of personal offenses at the loving hands of Healer Potter.”

“Just another stolen item to add to your long list of thievery,” growled Harry.

The grin disappeared from Malfoy’s back and he stepped back as if stung. 

Immediately, Harry regretted opening his big mouth  “I’m sorry,” he cringed.  “I shouldn’t have pushed you and I should _not_ have said that.”

“It’s fine.” 

“No, it isn’t,” Harry snapped.  “It was too far.  And-and I’m your Healer, for Christ’s sakes.”

Harry was pretty sure Malfoy had been making a joke about the list of offenses, but the truth was, if such a list ever ended up on Healer Malone’s lap, Harry would be sacked faster than he could say “but I meant well!”

“Get over it, Potter,” Malfoy said, giving him a funny look.  “If there’s one thing I look forward to after getting out of here, it’s _you_ being your normal dick self to me and not apologizing every ten seconds.”

All Harry heard was that Malfoy was looking forward to seeing him outside of here, and something about dick.

Harry frowned.

“God, Potter.  What’s happened to you?” asked Malfoy.  “You always used to give as good as you got.”

“What are you talking about?”

Malfoy looked frustrated.  He let out a growl.  “Never-mind.”  Then his eyes lit back up with a mischievous glow.  “Oh yeah.  And just to make sure I take all the fun out of your little ‘break,’” he nodded towards the Daily Prophet in Harry’s hand,  “I believe the word you’re looking for is ‘Stinksap.’”  His smile was beyond smug.

Not only did Malfoy drink Harry’s bloody coffee, but he ruined his Word Scrambles fun, too—on purpose!  “You absolute shite,” Harry hissed.

Malfoy took a step back and held his hands up, mockingly, as if to protect himself.  “Don’t hit me again, Potter.  Patient abuse has very severe consequences, I’ll wager.”

It did.

“Look,” Harry sighed, running a frustrated hand through his hair.  He glanced to the side to make sure no one overhead their conversation.  “I get that you’re joking, but seriously? Stop threatening me.”

“Oh, but I _love_ threatening you,” Malfoy bit back with a sneer.  “And who says I’m joking?”

Harry swallowed his dry and coffee-less saliva.  “Get back to work and finish the project with Chelsea—”

“Or what?” Malfoy’s eyes narrowed.  “You’ll tell McGonagall?  You’ll tell McClintock?  My parents?  Or all three?”  This time his scowl was real and there was no more mischievous glint in his eye.  “Now who’s threatening whom?”

“Malfoy—”

“Piss off, Potter,” Malfoy snapped, turning from Harry and sauntering back to Chelsea. “I have work to do.” 

….

….

…. 


	4. Chapter 4

Over the next few days, Malfoy began coming out of his shell. He stopped hiding in his room, instead venturing out to the patients’ lounge with a book.  Harry suspected it was one of the Bobby the Beater novels that Narcissa had brought for him, since the cover was always cleverly concealed by a book jacket made out of folded St Mungos stationery.

He’d even begun interacting with the other patients. Malfoy seemed to be growing not only fond of Chelsea, but protective of her, as well. Harry suspected that she reminded him of the students he’d abandoned at Hogwarts and wondered if, perhaps, his attentiveness was just another way his to alleviate his guilt.

In the mornings, Harry would supervise the patients alone with his word scrambles and coffee, watching their interactions to make sure they remained appropriate.  Ever since his argument with Malfoy, Malfoy hadn’t bothered to annoy Harry at all, outside of their one-on-one sessions, so Harry’s word scrambles were his own to solve now and his coffee cup was always, mercifully, full and present.

But when he was done with his Word Scrambles, his eyes would always wander to Malfoy, sitting in the patients’ lounge during free time and playing chess with Chelsea. Malfoy would point to the board a lot and gesture, as though he were carefully instructing her on her practices, while still ensuring his own victory.  

And when he thought no one was looking, Malfoy sometimes made a game of chucking used chess pieces at the back of Clark’s head, just to make Chelsea laugh.

Harry knew he should report this behavior but instead he’d just watch Malfoy, transfixed, and wonder what it was about Chelsea that made Malfoy suddenly give her all of his attention.

She was way too young for him to like like _that._  Wasn’t she?  Harry frowned and took a sip of his coffee.  Of course she was.  It was more of a mentor relationship.

What was it Parkinson had said at the Battle Anniversary?  Malfoy was a “love ‘em and leave ‘em” type? Harry scowled, narrowing his eyes as Chelsea tugged on a strand of  her shiny, brown hair.

Deep down, he knew it was a good thing.  Malfoy _should_ be interacting with the other patients.  It had been Harry’s idea in the first place, for Christ’s sakes!

So why did watching Malfoy and Chelsea annoy Harry so much?

….

….

….

“Tell me about your first experience with Felix Felicis.”

Harry had instructed Malfoy to sit on the red couch in his office that day.  He’d come out from behind the desk and pulled one of the chairs over to face Malfoy on the couch.

The blond was dressed in a pair of black pajama bottoms and a large, oversized brown sweater.  The sweater seemed like an odd thing for Malfoy to have, really.  It was clearly not his size, had never been his size and wasn’t at all a style in which Harry would have ever thought he’d see the man.  It almost resembled one of Mrs. Weasley’s holiday sweaters, except that it was one solid color.  Malfoy rolled the sleeves up to his elbows and leaned against the armrest with his chin on his fist. His Dark Mark was clearly visible, stark black on pale skin, but he made no attempt to hide it from Harry.

“My first time,” he mused, a far away look in his eye.  His mouth quirked up into a little smile and then faded away.  “Okay.  Well.  It was a while ago, actually.  During seventh year.”  His face pinched up for a moment, but he continued. “I was running a detention for the Carrows.”

Harry felt his eyebrows knit together.  He hadn’t expected Malfoy’s story to begin there, though he shouldn’t have been surprised.

“MacMillan was there,” Malfoy said.  “And Longbottom.  One of the Patil twins. And—” he paused. “And Creevey.  The one who—The-the older one. Colin.”

“I’m surprised you know his name.”

Malfoy glared.  “Well, he certainly knew _yours_ ,” he drawled.  “Wasn’t he your little fan-boy?”

“Don’t talk about Colin,” said Harry, an unnamed emotion rising in his chest.

“You—”

“Please,” said Harry, softer this time. “Don’t.”

Despite Malfoy’s comment, he looked visibly shaken.  “Anyway,” he continued, “Longbottom and Creevey had passed out from the Cruciatus Curse and Alecto sent me into the Potions stock room for a Reviving Draught. While I was in there, I started looking through the shelves, you know, sort of helping myself to whatever I pleased.  I took a few Calming Draughts—those always came in handy—and some Neuro-Healer which helped with the after-effects of the Cruciatus.”

Harry could see Malfoy’s hand tremor slightly before he balled it up into a second fist.

“And that’s when I saw it—golden, viscous . . . just like it’d looked in Slughorn’s class.”  Malfoy pensive look changed into a sneer.  “The day _you_ won it.” He shook his head.  “I still don’t get that.  I was sure that potion was going to be mine.  I needed it that year, Potter.  I needed it, badly.  And you got it.  And wasted it, I’m sure.”

Malfoy fixed Harry with an imploring stare, as if daring for him to explain what he’d done with the Felix.  Harry resisted answering, and waited for Malfoy to continue.

“After that day with Slughorn, I became obsessed with it—with the thought of it.”  Malfoy shifted positions, leaning forward, slightly and gesturing with his arm.  “All I could think about was how fucking unlucky I was and how much I _needed_ luck and-and how things could have gone so much better for me if I’d had it.”

“Better how?”

“That night,” he swallowed.  “Sixth year. W-when I. . . with the Death Eaters in the school . . .”  Malfoy’s voice trailed off and he scratched the back of his head.  “Things didn’t exactly go as planned and –-”

“When you failed to kill Dumbledore?”  Harry couldn’t keep the contempt from his voice.

Malfoy just looked at him.

“I was there,” Harry said with a sigh.  “In the tower that night.  I saw everything.”

Malfoy’s jaw dropped and his head reeled back several inches. “W-What do you mean?”

“When Snape killed Dumbledore.”

Shaking his head, Malfoy looked lost.  Then his eyes flashed and he spoke in a strangled voice.  “Oh, God. I knew it!  I saw two broomsticks. I fucking knew it.  You were _there_?”

Harry nodded, eyes narrowing despite himself.

“You were there _,”_ Malfoy said again, his voice pitched higher than normal. He ran a shaking hand through his hair.  He let out a bitter laugh.  “Of course you were.”

“I saw Snape kill him,” said Harry, wondering how he was managing to speak so candidly about the event.  Since the war, Harry had been interviewed by reporters and Aurors and the like about every little detail of the war.  But this moment—Dumbledore’s death—no one, save for his closest friends and allies, had known he was there, so he’d never had to speak about it.  And, certainly, he’d never _wanted_ to speak about it.  But Malfoy was there, too.  They’d experienced that moment together, so there was very little to explain. “But I also saw you lower your wand,” Harry continued. “I know you wouldn’t have done it.”

Malfoy pressed the fingers of one hand against his lips as he stared at the floor.  

“In fact,” Harry added, “for a minute, I thought you’d take Dumbledore’s offer.  Hoped you would, actually.”

Unfocused grey eyes slid from the floor up to Harry.  So much pain had been locked into their depths but, right now, Malfoy’s protective wall had been shocked away and every vulnerability could be seen in his eyes.

Then the eyes flashed, angrily.  “Well,” he growled, “My timing wasn’t so lucky that night, was it?”

It took a moment for the meaning to sink in.  “You think if you’d had the Felix that night Dumbledore would have lived?”

Crossing his arms tightly over his chest, Malfoy looked away.

“He was dying,” Harry said.  “Dumbledore.  He was going to die, anyway.”

“What do you mean?”

“One of the Horcruxes,” Harry sighed.  “Cursed him.”

Malfoy recoiled.  “That nasty black hand thing?”  Harry nodded. “He was going to die _anyway_?”  Harry nodded again.  “Well, why didn’t anyone tell _me_?”

Harry was beginning to think he should end this session early.  And plan for a date with a few bottles of Butterbeer later that night. “Anyway,” he said.  “Detention? The Carrows?”

“Oh. Right.  Well,” said Malfoy, “I knew what it was and I took it.  Didn’t even bother snatching the bottle, I swallowed the whole thing right there.”

Harry took a note of this.  “How did you feel?”

“Amazing.” Malfoy’s voice was breathy.  “Unstoppable.  I walked out of that stock room and went back to the detention.  Alecto was gone.” He gave a slight laugh.  “Patil gave the Healing Potions to the others and I told them all to just leave because, Potter, I knew— _knew—_ that no one would get in trouble.  Then, Crabbe and Goyle and I were supposed to see the Dark Lord that night, but when I went to Snape’s Floo, he told me that the Dark Lord was too busy to deal with us.”

Harry stopped taking notes and just stared at him.

“And if that wasn’t good enough, a million other things went my way,” said Malfoy. “Zabini left a box of caramel candies in the Common Room.  I found the hat I’d been missing since fourth year between the cushions in the Common Room couch.  Pansy offered to do all my homework for no good reason.”

Malfoy smiled wistfully.  “And that Patil girl—whichever one it was—thanked me for letting her out of detention.”  He grinned, smugly.  “And then we snogged in the Transfiguration corridor.”

Harry almost choked on his coffee.

“Nothing had gone my way all year.  It was insane.”

Once Harry had recovered, he said, “So, I think it’s safe to say that your first experience with the potion was a positive one?”

Malfoy nodded.  “Oh, yes.  Very positive.”

Harry looked at the floor for a moment and then back at Malfoy, who still had a sort of goofy grin on his face.  And then, Harry couldn’t stop himself.  “Which twin?” he blurted.

Malfoy raised an eyebrow.  “Does it matter?”

“No.” _Yes_. “Sort of.”

“Why would it?”

“You mean to say,” Harry blustered, “that-that you just made out with a girl and didn’t even know her name?  That’s—that’s just—”

“Hot?” He leered.

“No!”

“What’s your problem, Potter?” Malfoy asked.  “It was five years ago.  It’s not as if I have no idea who it was—I’ve narrowed it down to two.”

“That’s just—”

“So, you mean to tell me that you know that the nameof every girl you’ve ever snogged?” Malfoy raised an eyebrow.

Well, considering the low number, it wasn’t all that difficult.  “We aren’t here to talk about me.”

Malfoy gave a loud cough that sounded an awful lot like “virgin.”

“Okay,” frowned Harry.  “I think we’re done here for today.”

Malfoy blinked. “Are you _really?”_

“No,” Harry snapped, “I’m not.”   _Not technically._  

“Whatever you say.”

….

….

….

Chelsea picked up the next poster from the pile and held it up as Malfoy narrated.

There was a drawing of a building with ice cream cones on it and a label that read “Florean Fortescue’s.”  

“I could achieve my lifelong dream of serving scoops of cold ice cream,” Malfoy read.  He pointed to Chelsea who set the poster down and picked up the next one.  

“Or seeking for the Golden Snitch on England National’s Quidditch Pitch.”  The poster had a drawing of a big, gold snitch with puffy clouds behind it and three Quidditch rings.

Chelsea set the poster down and Malfoy picked up the next one.  This one had a picture of a newspaper article that was really just scribbles but clearly said “Written By: Chelsea Gouck,” at the top.

“Giving up Potions, there’s nothing to lose,” she said in a dreamy sing-song voice.   “I could write a column for the Prophet News.”

Malfoy picked up the next poster and Harry’s eyes bulged.  Chelsea gaped.  “You said we wouldn’t use that one!” she whispered urgently to Malfoy.

This poster was clearly a drawing of Harry with the lightning bolt on his forehead wearing green Healer robes.  His arm muscles were flexed and bulging ridiculously and his glasses took up his entire face.  Everyone in the room started laughing.

Malfoy smirked and looked right at him.  “Perhaps I could be a big hero that heals,” he nodded to Chelsea and she picked up the next poster, casting a nervous glance at Harry.  “And makes sure his patients eat all of their meals.”  There was a drawing of a tray filled with brown and green lumps.  Arrows pointing to the food said “yuck!” and “blergh!” and little flies surrounded the tray.

The presentation continued by making fun of most of the patients in a light-hearted manner and ended on a more serious note with Chelsea and Malfoy describing how their usual day might go without potions.

Chelsea got a bit teary at one point and Malfoy clapped a hand on her shoulder, then whispered something to her.  She smiled at him and continued, his hand squeezing her shoulder lightly for the rest of her speech.

….

….

….

That night, Harry dreamed about Malfoy.  It was nothing concrete, but it was definitely Malfoy—his presence could be felt all around—and Harry was vaguely sure there was some blond hair and maybe some bodies touching and he was pretty sure he was shoved up against a wall at some point.

All he knew for certain was that, when he woke up in the middle of the night, hard, he could not for the life of him get the thought of Malfoy out of his head.

That uneasy excitement lingered into the day and with only four hours of sleep on his plate, Harry felt slightly insane and a bit dissociative, as if everything that was happening was sort of a dream.  The three cups of coffee he’d downed at breakfast only increased this feeling and by the time he arrived at work, sweaty and shaking and dizzy, he wondered if he might be a danger to patients in his current state.

“Nonsense,” McClintock boomed.  “They need you, Potter.”  He gave a sharp nod.  “Nothing a cup of coffee won’t cure.”

So, at McClintock’s insistence, Harry found himself back in the cafeteria, dumping sugar into his fourth cup of coffee.

“Harry—”

“What!” Harry spun around and stumbled a bit, his equilibrium off-kilter.  “Oh,” he breathed. “Susan. Hi.  Where’s Baddock?”  Harry looked all around and then took a long sip of coffee.  He laughed, suddenly.  “Baddock? Not sure why I asked about him.  Its not like you’d be coming to the cafeteria to fetch coffee with him in the morning.  It isn’t lunch time after all.” He laughed again.  “Not that you come with him at lunch, either, though that is when he usually shows up, right?”

Susan gave him a funny look.  “What’s wrong with you?”

“Me! Heh-nothing.”  Harry yawned, then wiped sweat off his brow.  “Merlin, I’m tired.”

“Okay, Harry,” she said carefully.  “Take it easy, then.”  She looked at his cup of coffee.  “Are you sure you need that?”

“Oh, yes.”  Harry nodded. “Definitely.  Healer’s orders.”  He gave a solemn nod, laughed again and dug in his pocket for money.

“If you say so . . .”

….

….

….

Edgy and paranoid, Harry tapped his fingers anxiously against his desk as he watched Malfoy toil with his Rubik’s cube.

Malfoy was concentrating hard, a frown on his face.  It looked like something was bothering him and Harry knew he should try and get to the root of it, but the intermittent clicking of plastic on plastic felt like spiders crawling through his ears.

Nervous energy propelled Harry out of his chair and he began pacing back and forth behind his desk.

Malfoy scowled.  From the corner of his eye, Harry saw him fumble with the toy, gasp and dart a quick look at Harry.

“What-what are you doing?” Harry snapped, spinning around to face him.

Malfoy held the Rubik’s cube tightly in his hand with a guilty look.  “Nothing,” he said.

“Open your hands.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Make me.”

“Fine.”  And in two steps, Harry had grabbed both of Malfoy’s hands and was trying to pry them open.

“Get-get the hell off me!”

“Give. It. Back!”

“You’re insane, you complete lunatic!”  Malfoy aimed a kick at Harry’s crotch, but Harry turned quickly and the kick caught him in the knee.  The movement seemed to bring Harry back to reality and he let go of Malfoy’s hands and stumbled back a few steps.

Malfoy stood and carelessly tossed the Rubik’s cube onto the desk. Several of the stickers had been peeled off and unevenly replaced.  Now, they were curling up in the corners, showing sticky white backs and bits of dirt.

“Fuck,” said Harry.  “I knew it!  You ruined it.  You fucked around with it and you ruined it.”

Malfoy was leaning against the desk, breathing heavily.  “Are you fucking serious right now?”

“I knew I shouldn’t have let you—”

“You _didn’t_ let me, remember?”

An unreasonable amount of anger coursed through Harry and he picked up the Rubik’s cube and hurled it across the room.  It hit a picture frame on the wall, cracking the glass and startling the occupants—two children on the beach—into tears.

Malfoy just stared at him.  Harry breathed heavily in and out of his nose, arms folded tightly across his chest.  He knew he should be embarrassed and some tiny voice in the back of his head was telling him that he had gone way too far, but it wasn’t a voice easily heard over the blood boiling in his ears.

He struggled to recall some of the visualization techniques he had learned in therapy. It had been a long time since he’d needed them, but he had to get in control of himself _now_. 

Closing his eyes to Malfoy and the room, Harry breathed in and out through his nose, counting to ten.  He pictured himself on his Firebolt, soaring over an empty Quidditch pitch—all sunny weather and clear blue skies.  He was holding a snitch in his hands. Harry could feel the fluttering wings vibrate against his palm.

“It’s true, then,” said Malfoy, slowly.

“What?” growled Harry, opening his eyes.  He could see the tiniest hint of amusement on Malfoy’s face and it just pissed him off further.  He shut his eyes again.   _Green grass_ , _soothing wind . . ._

“You.”  Malfoy said in awe. “What it said in the Prophet.  About you blowing up the Ministry officials.”

_The feel of the broomstick in his hands . . ._  Harry cracked open an eye. “I didn’t _blow them up_.”

“Oh, my mistake. You _shrank_ them.  After you blew up a hallway full of plants because you don’t understand the concept of _rare_ _steak_.”

“It was _burnt_ steak, thanks.”

“Oh, because that’s much better.”  Malfoy shook his head and his face broke out into a grin.  “I can’t believe it!” He started laughing.  “No, actually, I can.”

“Stop it.” Harry squeezed his eyes shut. “Stop laughing!”

He didn’t.

“Listen, you bastard—” Harry opened his eyes and saw that Malfoy was considerably closer.  He’d come around the desk and was now standing right in front of Harry.  Instinctively, Harry stepped back toward the wall.

“What kind of Healer—”

Harry covered his face with his hands. “Shut up!  Just shut up!”  

The laughter faded but Malfoy’s mocking smile remained. “Why don’t you shut me up?” His eyes glittered.

It sounded like a come on. Did he mean—?  Harry paused.   _That dream_.  

“Well, Potter?” His voice was breathy. Harry felt himself moving backward.  Malfoy was so close, he could see each individual eyelash and the light sprinkling of freckles on his nose.  Harry wondered when he’d ever been in the sun long enough to get freckles. Maybe they were from Quidditch.  Maybe—

Mesmerized, unsure if his hypnotic state was due to lack of sleep, excess caffeine or the squinted grey eyes that were only inches from his face, daring him, Harry shut his eyes again.

“MY SHOVEL!”  The little girl in the broken picture frame wailed.  Harry’s eyes darted up to see the broken glass and the small pile of ripped stickers that had curled up and peeled completely off of the Rubik’s cube.  It was only a fraction of a second, but it was enough to scare the shit out of him.

What. The. HELL. Was. Happening?

With the speed and grace of a drunken hippogriff,  Harry scrambled away from Malfoy and took three lurching steps until he was back in the safety of his chair, gripping the arm rests as if his life depended on it.

“Get out,” said Harry.  “Now.”

The smile completely died from Malfoy’s face and he stepped back. “Make me,” Malfoy said, but his voice didn’t sound nearly as confident as it had a minute ago.  

Harry shut his eyes for a moment, the dizziness of insomnia mixed with the dwindling caffeine level and overwhelming humiliation.  What just happened?  

Worse, what had _almost_ just happened?

Taking a deep breath, Harry tried to gain control.  “Please,” he croaked,  “just go.”  He opened his eyes and sent Malfoy a pleading look.  “ _Please_.”

Malfoy’s eyes narrowed and Harry could see that his cheeks were pink and blotchy. “Well,” he said, his voice cold, “since you asked so nicely.”

And with that, he got up and left, shutting the door with more force than was strictly necessary.

….

….

….

At lunchtime, Harry dodged Susan and Baddock and headed for the Floo, tumbling out into the lobby of Gringott’s bank within minutes.

He turned quickly from the hall of tellers toward a corridor of offices.  

The receptionist smiled pleasantly at him.  “Mister Potter,” she said, “Here to see Mrs. Weasley, I presume?”

“Er-yeah. Please.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

Harry sighed.  Every time, they went through this same conversation.  He knew that Hermione had told this woman that Harry never needed an appointment to come and see her.  

“N-yes. It’s a bit of a standing appointment.”

The woman nodded politely and sent her beaver Patronus after Hermione.

Several moments later, Hermione, dressed in sleek, professional navy blue robes with her hair knotted in a tight chignon, came around the corner, arms laden with books.

Some things never changed.

“Harry!” she beamed.

“Hermione!”  He couldn’t help letting his eyes fall to her mid-section, to see if there was any sign of growth.

“How—uf!”  She stumbled slightly and almost dropped her books.  Harry darted forward, steadied her and tried to pull the books out of her hands.

“Harry!”

“Hermione-you shouldn’t be carrying—”

Her eyes narrowed.  “Harry . . .?”

“—in your condition.”  Shit.  “Oops.”

She rolled her eyes and shook her head.  “Ron told you.”

Harry gave a sheepish grin.  “Yeah.”  Then hugged her.  “Merlin, Hermione—I can’t believe it!”

She hugged him back. “I know, I know,” she looked around her, “but-Shh!” She lowered her voice.  “I haven’t told anyone here yet.”

“Oh.  Okay.”  Harry looked at the receptionist and her eyes darted quickly back to her work.

“Well, come on.”  Hermione motioned for Harry to follow her.  She led him down a corridor of small offices and into a neat well-furnished room with two desks.

“Where’s Annette?”

Hermione waved her hand, dismissively.  “Out until next week.”  She gestured for Harry to take Annette’s chair.  “So?”

With the excitement of the pregnancy, he’d nearly forgotten why he’d run off to see her.  In an instant, it all came crashing back with painful humiliation.

“Hermione,” Harry began, running a nervous hand through his hair, “I messed up.”

She frowned in concern. “Oh, no. What happened this time?”

“For starters, I threw something and broke a picture frame in front of a patient.”

Her mouth opened in a silent “O” and she looked to the side. “A patient, hm?”

“No Galleons for guessing who.” 

Her mouth twisted to the side, knowingly.  “Harry, why do you let him get to you?”

“I don’t know,” he said, glumly.  “If he tells anyone, though, I’m going to be suspended. It’s like I just can’t control myself around him.  I-I feel like a teenager—and he’s not even goading me, not really.  Well, sort of. I don’t know.”

“What did he do?”

“He peeled the stickers off my Rubik’s cube.”

Hermione just looked at him, as if waiting for him to continue.  When he didn’t, her face dropped. “That’s it?”

“He ruined it!”

“Harry—”

“I know!”  Harry let out a frustrated sound.  “I just-didn’t sleep well.  There was this dream and—and he was—I woke up and—”

“A dream about Malfoy?”

“This is really embarrassing,” Harry said, hiding his face in his hands.  “I just didn’t know who else to talk to.”

Hermione gave Harry a knowing smile.  “An embarrassing dream about Malfoy that bothered you?  Hmm.”

Hermione already knew he liked blokes.  Well, she at least knew that he’d entertained the possibility.  He’d never actually made a move on anyone since Ginny, though.  Work and training had kept him too busy and, other than noticing a few fit men, Harry had never really fancied another bloke.  

But Malfoy . . . Harry didn’t know _what_ it meant to fancy Malfoy.  Malfoy wasn’t a _bloke_.  He was a—a thing. An annoying _thing_ that was just always _there_.  He was like the personified version of Harry’s teenage insecurities.  

But he wasn’t, though, was he?  Not anymore.  There was still that same intensity between the two of them that there had always been, but it was somehow just _more_.

And, as far as Harry knew, Malfoy was straight.  He’d gone out with Pansy, he’d made out with one of the Patil twins and he certainly wasn’t keeping his grabby little mitts to himself around Chelsea.

“Do you like him, Harry?”

Harry covered his face with his hands again and let out a pitiful moan.  “It’s _wrong_.”

“Why?”

“Because, he’s damaged.”  Harry frowned.  That didn’t come out right.  “He’s sick.  I’m his Healer, Hermione.  He trusts me.  He’s in a vulnerable state right now and I’d be taking advantage.”

“That’s very true,” she said. “But . . . ?”

"But I can’t stop thinking about him.  And it’s mad, but, it _feels_ like he’s trying to get to me.  Er-in _that way_. You know.”

“Why?”

“Well,” Harry’s first thought was of the muscle-y drawing Malfoy had made of him, but that was just too ridiculous to even share. “He-he drinks my coffee.  And ruins my word scrambles for no reason.”  Harry looked to see if Hermione was following.  Her neutral face revealed nothing.

“He dared me to shut him up.  Twice.”  Harry looked down at his hands.  “And he did it in this voice.  You know?”

Hermione was still quiet.

“And, did you know that Malfoy is the one who wrote me that Valentine in second year?”  Harry still hadn’t asked Ginny about that, but he was pretty sure he believed it, if only because Malfoy still had the whole poem memorized.  

“The one that compared you to a toad?” Hermione widened her eyes.

“Yes!”

“I thought Ginny wrote that!”

“So did I!”

Hermione started laughing.  “It makes sense, though, when you think about it.”

“I know it does.”

Hermione sighed.  “I don’t know, Harry.  It’s possible he might like you, too.  And if the setting and situation were different—and perhaps also the _person—_ I’d say go for it, but,” she shook her head.  “This has bad news written all over it.”

“I know.”  Harry wasn’t really sure why he went to Hermione.  She was really just stating things that he already knew, but in a more eloquent way than he was able.

“And you probably don’t want to hear this, but you should really ask for a transfer.”

Harry scowled.  “You’re right.  I don’t want to hear that.”

“This is your _job_ , Harry.  You can’t jeopardize it because of one person.”

“But this one person needs my help, Hermione,” Harry said, emboldened by the words as they came out.  “I can help him better than McClintock.  I feel like I’m the only one who _can_ help him because I get it.  I was there.”

“Maybe he needs someone impartial.”

“He doesn’t,” Harry snapped.  “I just need to control myself better.”

Hermione made a doubtful face.

“What?” Harry asked, balefully.  “Go ahead and say it.  I can’t control myself, right?”

“I didn’t say anything,” Hermione shrugged, delicately.

“But you were thinking it.”

….

….

….


	5. Chapter 5

With the Rubik’s cube now firmly locked inside Harry’s desk drawer, Malfoy reached for the next most interesting thing on the desk—a deck of Muggle playing cards from Dudley.

Having prepared himself for this, Harry sat back and watched Malfoy open up the box and dump the cards onto the desk.  Half the cards fell right-side up, and a few were upsidedown, showing a polar bear in sunglasses. Several fell onto the floor.

Harry let them.  It was fine. Really.

“What do you do with these?” Malfoy asked, flicking a card, skeptically. 

“They’re regular playing cards.  There are a bunch of games you can play with them.”

“Yes, but what do they _do?”_

“They don’t _do_ anything,” said Harry.

“Are they Muggle?”  Malfoy wrinkled his nose.

“Yes.”  Harry could see that Malfoy was interested, but was trying to pretend like he wasn’t.  “Pick the cards up off the floor and I’ll show you a game.”

Malfoy stared at him for a second, shrugged, and bent down to pick up the cards that had fallen.  He added them to the pile and began righting the cards on his own, so that they all faced the same direction.

Harry taught him how to play War, figuring it was the simplest way to show him how Muggle cards worked.  Malfoy seemed fascinated.

“It’s so simple,” he mused.  “It’s all based on chance.”

Harry nodded.

“It’d be great for betting,” Malfoy added, gathering two more cards for his pile.  He’d somehow acquired all of the Aces and Kings and was cleaning up rather nicely.  “Place a Galleon per hand and—”

“Woah.”  Harry jerked his head up, pausing.  “A Galleon per hand?”

Malfoy shrugged, his cheeks reddening.  “Yeah, if you have it.  Why not?”

Harry felt it was time to bring up Malfoy’s gambling trouble.  “Are these the kinds of things you’d place bets on?”

Malfoy raised an eyebrow.  “I bet on _all_ kinds of things.”

“Yeah?  How did that work out for you?”

“Not so well, Potter, as I’m sure you can imagine.”  Malfoy paused.  “Well, something like _this_ would have been fine.  A game of luck.  The odds would always be on my side.  But something that required skill . . . that usually got me into a bit of hot water.”

“Like when you challenged me to a Seeker’s Game?” Harry looked at him.

Pale eyebrows drew together in confusion.  “What are you talking about?”

“You bet me that you could beat me to the Snitch,” Harry said, slowly.  “You said you’d been practicing and had gotten much better. Remember?”

Malfoy’s mouth parted as he repeated the words to himself.  He shook his head.  “I think you’re thinking of someone else.”

“I most definitely am not.”

“Why would I challenge _you_ to a Seeker’s game?” Malfoy asked, bitterly. “I’d obviously lose.”

“So, you haven’t gotten better at flying, then?”

“What do you think?” he muttered, tossing a three of hearts at Harry’s Jack.

Harry gathered the cards and added them to his pile, tapping the edges lightly against the table to make them even.  “I think, perhaps, you’d ingested enough Felix that night to black out. It does happen.”

Malfoy swallowed hard, his cheeks flaming red, the flush spreading down onto his neck.

“Did you black out often?” Harry asked.

“Well, I don’t _know_ , do I?”

“Malfoy.”

The blond set the cards down and glared at Harry.  “I suppose,” he halted, as if it was difficult to get the words out, “I suppose I might have.”

“Is it possible that you made a deal with Joseph Gricharak that you forgot about?”

Malfoy’s eyes flashed wildly at the name and he darted a glance at the door.  “Merlin—I hope not.”

“Perhaps that’s why he attacked you?”

Malfoy closed his eyes and rubbed his hands against his temples.  “Probably,” he admitted.

It had been bothering Harry for a while, so he figured he’d just ask him flat out.  “Gricharak seems to be involved in Potion dealing,” he said.  Malfoy gave him an uneasy look.  “You weren’t, by any chance, brewing for him?”

Malfoy leaned back.  “No.”  He shook his head.  “No! Look, Potter, my issues were _mine_.  I brewed for _myself_.  Gricharak was just—he fronted the money for the Education Fund and I—” he frowned, “I was to do something for him in return.”

“What?”

He opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it, shaking his head. 

“Malfoy?”

He looked at Harry, his eyes haunted.  “I can’t remember.” 

….

….

….

Harry had a bad feeling about it.  He wasn’t sure if Malfoy was telling the truth about not remembering, but Harry wanted to believe him.  The problem was, after Harry had prompted Ron into investigating Gricharak, the Auror department was starting to find some very incriminating evidence against the man.

What could Malfoy have possibly promised Gricharak in return for money?  He didn’t have anything else to give him besides his talents—and the fact remained that Malfoy was a talented Potions brewer.  And if the man was a dealer—and all signs were beginning to point to _yes—_ then it stood to reason that Malfoy was possibly making illegal potions for him.

And if _that_ was true, Malfoy was in a world of trouble—trouble that Harry wouldn’t be able to get him out of.

Malfoy insisted, however, that, even blacked out on Felix, he wouldn’t have done something like that.   He said with the Ministry breathing down his neck, he wouldn’t have wanted to give them a reason to suspect him.  Plus, the whole idea of supporting a recreational Potions habit for oneself or others was deeply frowned upon by Lucius Malfoy—a social embarrassment.  It was okay for Malfoys to engage in other illegal activities—ones that made them appear more powerful amongst those in the elite Pureblood inner-circle—but brewing drugs that served no purpose other than supporting a disgusting addiction was not acceptable.  It was practically Muggle. 

And addicts were desperate, messy people.  Malfoy couldn’t have people like that calling on him at work or otherwise interrupting his life as an upstanding Hogwarts Professor.

No, Malfoy was certain he wouldn’t have brewed potions for sale. But the worry in his eyes belied his own self-doubt.

….

….

….

“After your experience with the Carrows in detention,” said Harry, the next afternoon, “when did you next use Felix?”

Malfoy was lying on the couch again, lazily shuffling the deck of cards.  Harry hadn’t asked him to sit there, but he seemed to prefer lounging, in general.  He was back in his black silk robe again over multiple layers of clothing looking like some sort of urban-chic hobo, attempting to model furniture.  “The next time,” he mused, looking up at the ceiling.  “The next time was a bit after the first one, though I went back to the stock room that very same night, looking for more.”

“Did they have more?”

“The Carrows had _loads_ of it.”  Malfoy shook his head.  “But even I knew that taking all of it would be pressing my luck.  As far I know, I was the only student with the password to get into the stock room, so if they’d noticed anything missing . . .”

“How much did you take?”

“Three more bottles,” said Malfoy.  “But once I knew what it did—how powerful it was—I knew I couldn’t waste it.  So I saved them.”

“Until?”

“Easter Holidays, seventh year.”  Malfoy looked at Harry.  They both knew what had happened.

“Were you—?  That day—?” Harry widened his eyes.

Malfoy shook his head.  “No, Potter, not that day.  But, the day before and just after.”

“So, the day before,” Harry took a note of this.  “What happened the day before?”

“I was told to guard the prisoners in the Malfoy dungeons, Potter,” he said, his casual voice betrayed by his cold eyes.  “Happy Easter, Draco.  Bring these bits of horse feed to the basement.  The wand-maker keeps falling over and we need to keep him alive for the Dark Lord.  And, oh yes, bring these cotton cloths to the blond girl, it’s her monthly time and it just isn’t dignified.”  Malfoy squeezed his eyes shut and shuddered. “At that point it wasn’t about luck . . . I just didn’t know what else to do.” 

“Oh my God,” Harry murmured, horrified.

“And if lucky meant not vomiting and sleeping through the night, well then, it worked.”

“Jesus.”

“Also,” he added, a grim smile on his face, “what was supposed to be an entire week of babysitting prisoners ended up lasting only two hours.”  Malfoy shook his head.  “Two hours after the Felix, that vile Pettigrew was sent down to relieve me.”  He sighed in relief, as though he had just experienced it. “Pettigrew was pissed about it, but it wasn’t his call.  Imagine, being in the Dark Lord’s service for years—bringing him back, even, and still being lower on the totem poll than a seventeen year old.” His lips curled up in delight.

Harry sensed that Malfoy felt some sort of pride at that, which bothered him.   He knew he should have explored it further with Malfoy—it would probably offer deep insight into his character— but he simply couldn’t bring himself to do it.  Even the thought of Peter Pettigrew nauseated Harry more than he wanted to admit.

“After you left, of course, with _my wand_ ,” Malfoy’s smile faded and his voice was bitter, “with _everyone’s_ fucking wands, I knew I was dead.”

Harry remembered Malfoy’s anguished cries as the shard of glass from the chandelier embedded themselves into his face.  It must have hurt terribly, but Harry ignored the impulse to apologize. Yes, he’d  left Malfoy defenseless in the middle of a war, but at the time, he’d been the enemy.

“So, after Mother and Maggs picked every last bit of glass out of my face,” Malfoy scowled at Harry, “Aunt Bella kept trying to get me alone.  And I knew that bitch was crazy enough to hurt me—but not in front of my mother.  I kipped off to the bathroom as soon as I could—I’d had one of the bottles on hand—and swallowed it.  Seconds later, Bella found me and took me to the Dark Lord.”

“At first, I thought it wasn’t working,” he smiled, grimly.  “But it was.  Every question the Dark Lord asked me about the wands, about the prisoners, about _everything_ —I followed the potion’s impulse.  I answered everything correctly—whatever it was he wanted to hear, I said it. And, Potter?  I didn’t even get a scratch.  He Crucioed Aunt Bella and burned her fingertips for wasting his time.  But me?  I got nothing.   _Nothing_.”

“And that’s when I fell in love with it,” said Malfoy, a far-away look in his eyes. “With Felix, I never had to doubt myself again.”

“But, wasn’t it difficult to obtain after that?”

Malfoy nodded.  “It was.  Extremely.  In fact,” he sat up, straighter, “I wasn’t able to take it again for a while—not until I started making it myself.”

“Back at school?”

He shook his head. “House arrest.”  Malfoy looked at his hands.  “Believe it or not, that ridiculous sentence was actually legitimate.  I didn’t take any potion before my trial—in case you were about to ask. I’m not that stupid.”

“So,” said Harry, “you didn’t take it at the Final Battle, then?”

Malfoy just looked at him.  “What do you think?” he finally spat.  “If I had, don’t you think things would have turned out a little differently?”

“You’re talking about Crabbe.”

Malfoy huffed and rolled his eyes.

“Either that, or you’re suggesting that the Dark Lord would have won.”

“I’m taking about Crabbe, arsehole.”  Malfoy’s eyes were narrowed.  “I never wanted the Dark Lord to win,” he said, bitterly.

“Never?” Harry raised his eyebrows.

“ _Never_.” Malfoy dared Harry to challenge him.  Harry could have brought up Second Year and the whole Heir of Slytherin thing, but figured that the ignorant remarks made by Malfoy when he was twelve years old didn’t really mean much in the grand scheme of things.

“You know,” said Harry, “I would have thought you _had_ taken the potion during the Final Battle.”

“Why?”

“Because,” said Harry, “the way I see it, you were extremely lucky that night.  And, apparently, that was all on your own.”

“How so?” Malfoy looked skeptical.

“First of all,” Harry ticked off his fingers, “you _lived_. So, automatically, you made out better than half of the people there.  Secondly, yes, Crabbe died.  And Snape. But so many of your friends _didn’t._  I mean, really, Malfoy.  The entire Slytherin house evacuated the battle—they weren’t even there.”

Malfoy opened his mouth to interrupt, but Harry raised a hand to stop him.

“Third, your parents lived.”  At this point, Harry stopped counting and just rambled off the facts. “That Death Eater almost killed you, but he didn’t.  Your mother lied to Voldemort’s face and wasn’t found out.  As far as I know, you never actually had to kill anyone.  And, when all was said and done, you were able to sit out in the open at the battle’s end and no one came after you or your family.”

The blond was playing with a seven of diamonds card, not looking at Harry.

“And Voldemort lost,” Harry added, sitting back in his chair.  “You came out a lot better than you realize.”

Malfoy took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.  “Maybe,” he conceded.  “I mean, I know I did, but—”

“Living through a war,” Harry continued, “means experiencing regret.  And guilt.”  Harry remembered something his therapist had told him and debated for only moment before deciding he could trust Malfoy.  “After the war, I had to get help to deal with-with some things.  Part of that was guilt.  And my therapist said that everyone at the battle, regardless of their side, has asked themselves at least once, ‘What if?’”  Malfoy nodded.  Harry’s surprise at his respect bolstered his honesty.  “He said that everyone experiences regret. It’s normal.” 

Malfoy gave a tight nod, his eyes blinking, rapidly.  “It’s just—I should have never been in that room.”  His voice cracked and he gestured, helplessly. “I just wanted my wand back.”

“I know,” said Harry, remembering how lost he, himself, had felt without his wand.

“It was so selfish and stupid,” Malfoy’s voice shook and he wiped tears angrily from his eyes.  “I knew you needed to win the battle, and obviously you needed a wand to do it, but I couldn’t stop myself from getting in your way.  I saw you go in that room and I just had to follow you.”

Harry sat back in his seat.

“And I knew you were in there for something important, but, all I could think about was myself.   _I_ wanted _my_ wand.  And I _wanted_ you to pay for taking it.” Malfoy’s face scrunched up.  “And it didn’t matter that your arse was out there, fighting for all of us, because I just couldn’t stand that, on top of being the hero—the reason for the entire fucking battle in the first place—and the one everyone was secretly rooting for, you had _my goddamn wand_.”

Malfoy was folding up the corner of the card. Harry let him.

“I almost killed all of us,” Malfoy said, voice tight. “I almost ruined _everything_.”

“But you didn’t,” Harry reminded him, gently.

“If I’d taken Felix that night, I would have been out there fighting,” said Malfoy, face red. “I would have known that my mother’s wand was good enough.  I wouldn’t have lead fucking Goyle and fucking Crabbe _right to you_ when they’d been brainwashed to believe that your death would set everything to rights.”  He let out small sob and covered his face with his hands.  “So, yes, Potter.  Crabbe’s death was my fault.”

Malfoy’s thinking was so twisted.  He had this perception that everything that happened that night somehow had to do with him when, in reality, it had very little to do with him at all.  Which made sense, really, after Malfoy explained his selfish desire to get his wand, just to one up Harry during the Final Battle.

“Malfoy,” said Harry, gently setting down his notes.  Malfoy pressed his fingers to eyes for a moment then lifted his head.  “I understand what you’re saying.  And I see how you can think that Crabbe’s death was your fault.  But, you’ve been living with this guilt for way too long.  It’s irrational, it is not productive and it stops _today_.”

“How.” He sounded defeated.

“You need to make peace with it,” said Harry.  “And you need to make peace with Crabbe, as well.”

“He wasn’t in his right mind . . . ”

“I know,” Harry said, though he couldn’t recall a moment Crabbe was ever in his ‘right mind.’  “Crabbe wasn’t.  Goyle wasn’t.   _You weren’t either._ Hell, Malfoy, none of us were.”

“But I knew what I was doing—”

“You weren’t in your right mind, Malfoy,” said Harry.  “And that’s not to say you should be excused for your actions, but you were very much being controlled, manipulated and physically and emotionally abused by most of the people around you.  You were seventeen years old, you were in the middle of a war, children were _dying_ and you wanted your wand.”

Malfoy looked unsure.

“If you had my wand, I would have done the same thing,” said Harry.  “Anyone would have.”

“I just—” Malfoy stared at his hands, “wish there was something I could do to change it.  I was such an idiot.”

“You have to forgive yourself.  Let it go.”

Malfoy looked up at him, his eyes watery and wide.  “I don’t think I can.”

“Why not?”

“I tried,” he tossed the card aside and dropped his hands, helplessly.  “That’s why I did the charities and got the job at Hogwarts.”  His face turned bitter.  “But, in the end, all I did was betray everyone I was meaning to help.” He folded his arms across his chest.  “I stole from them.  I lied to them.  It became all about me, as usual.”  He made a noise of disgust. “Typical Malfoy, selfish through and through.”

“No, you’re not,” said Harry, surprised by the sureness in his tone.  “You did mean well.  And you did a hell of a lot more than most did, trying to make up for your actions.”

Malfoy sighed and dropped his head into his hand.

“You just went about it wrong, that’s all,” said Harry. 

“Really wrong,” Malfoy muttered.

Harry laughed, softly.  “Yeah,” he agreed.  “Really wrong. You got caught up in it.  Things got way out of control.  And at that point, when someone is fully addicted to something, selfish is about the only thing they _can_ be.”

Malfoy was quiet for a while, occasionally brushing his fingers through his hair.  Then he looked up at Harry and asked, “Can we be done for today?”

….

….

….

Group session ended with Harry reminding everyone that Friday was Visitation Day.  Family and friends were welcome to see patients, as long as the patient wanted to see them.  Individuals would also be screened by St Mungos to be certain that they weren’t a risk to the patient or the recovery process.

Malfoy looked at the list of visitors with hesitation.

“Can we skip it?” he asked, hopefully.

“Well,” said Harry, “you have the right to deny any of your visitors from coming, but they’ll know that you did.”  Harry held his hand out for Malfoy’s list.  Malfoy handed it to him. “Is there anyone on here that you don’t want to see?”

“Try _all of them_.”

“There are only three people on here.  Your parents and McGonagall.”

“Yes,” Malfoy hissed, snatching the list back.  “Exactly.”

“So, you’d like me to tell them not to come?”

“No!” Malfoy cried, looking panicked.  “What are you, _daft?”_

“You just said—”

“Wishful thinking.” Malfoy crumpled the paper into a ball and shoved it in the pocket of his khakis.  “Where’s Chelsea?”  He looked around, saw her, and pushed past Harry to get to her.

….

….

….

The morning of Visitation Day, most of the patients were nervous, but Malfoy was an absolute _wreck_.  He’d come out of his room three times wearing three different outfits, and three different hairstyles. At the moment, he had settled on grey, professional robes with his hair pulled back, but there was no guarantee as to how long that look would last.

Harry was busy filling out some paperwork in the office when he heard a knock on the door.  “Come in,” he said, lifting the locking spell.

The door flew open.  Wild-eyed, Malfoy stomped into the room and slammed the door shut behind him with a bang.  “I can’t do it.   I can’t do it!”  He reached up and grabbed fistfuls of his hair, yanking it out of place.

“Calm down.” Harry stood up, alarmed.  “Can’t do what?”

“My parents? Okay. _Maybe_.  I mean—” Malfoy was sweating.  He sat down for a moment, then, agitated, sprang back up from the chair again.  “I mean, my father will say how disappointed he is and my mother—who knows?  Maybe she’ll cry.  Maybe she’ll slap me again.”  He waved his arms around in the air. “And I can handle all of that, Potter.  I think.”

“Then what’s wrong?”

“You know what’s wrong,” Malfoy said, bitterly.  “You can’t be that stupid.”

“McGonagall?” Harry guessed.

“Ten points to the moron in the green robes.” Malfoy wrinkled his nose.  “That’s a hideous color on you, by the way.”

“Thanks,” Harry snapped.

“What am I going to do?” Malfoy reached up with his hands and started ineffectually patting his hair back into place.  The more he fiddled with it, the more static-y it grew, until all of the shortest pieces were standing on end, dancing in sync.

“Just listen to what she has to say,” Harry suggested.  “McGonagall is a reasonable woman.”

“I know.”  Malfoy covered his eyes with his hands. “I didn’t tell you this, Potter, but I can’t go back to Hogwarts.”

“What?  Harry was shocked.  “Why not?”

“How can I?”  Malfoy looked torn,  “It’s not that I don’t _want_ to, but it’s all so humiliating.  McGonagall-she’ll never trust me again.  And Bancroft, that Slytherin bastard, probably told every student there.  I can’t face them.”

“Yes, you can.”

“No. I _can’t_.”  Malfoy shook his head, desperately.  “I can’t.  I really can’t.”

Harry stood up and walked around his desk to Malfoy.  He placed his hands on his shoulders and looked him in the eye.  “You can and you _will_.”

“Potter,” Malfoy looked away, blinking rapidly.

“Listen to me,” said Harry.  “They’re all back there, most likely thinking the worst.  If you disappear forever, you’ll never get a chance to apologize.”

Malfoy looked horrified at the idea.

“You _owe them_ an apology.”  Harry released his shoulders and stepped back.  Malfoy looked like he was going to faint.  “You owe McGonagall an apology, at the very least.”

“I know that, but—”

“Get it over with.  In a few hours, she’ll be gone, you’ll have apologized, and, I promise you, you will feel so much better.”

“Liar.” He crossed his arms tightly over his chest.

“At least listen to what she has to say,” said Harry.  “McGonagall went through a lot of trouble to hold your position for you.  Hear her out first, and then decide whether you want to return or not.”

Malfoy’s lips were pressed tightly together.

“You owe her that much.”

“I know I do,” he bit back, nastily.  Then he ran his hands over his face and up into his hair.  “It’s just . . . hard.”

“So?”

Malfoy gave him a funny look.

“So, what?” Harry asked. “So what if she’s mad?  So what if you’re embarrassed?  So what if your mother slaps you on the face?  In a few hours, it’s done with.   _So what?_ ”

Malfoy frowned. “So, what,” he mouthed to himself.  Then he looked back up at Harry, unsure if he understood him correctly. “So, what?” he repeated, skeptical.

“So, what?” Harry said, with a shrug. “That’s all.”

Malfoy stared at him for a moment, then gave him a tight nod and walked from the room.

….

….

….

The patients were sitting in the lounge with their visitors.  There was coffee, for once, that pretty much everyone helped themselves to and some snacks and biscuits and pumpkin juice.  Nothing all that appetizing, but at least the environment seemed friendly and welcoming.

The Malfoys had left already.  They’d arrived by Floo right at the start of visiting hours.  Narcissa had brought Malfoy another care basket from home.  She’d hugged her son and cried.  Lucius had remained tight-lipped and quiet, casting sneering glances at the other patients and at the facility.

Most of the patients appeared happy and relieved to see their guests.  Everyone except Chelsea had visitors.  She was sitting in a chair off to the side with her Reflection Journal.  Malfoy was beside her, still jumpy as he waited for McGonagall.  They were passing the time playing tic-tac-toe and Hang Wizard.

“Hello, Mister Potter.”  Harry spun around, a grin on his face at the familiar voice. No one at St Mungos called him ‘Mister.’

“Professor!” Harry grasped McGonagall’s hand in his own and gave her a warm handshake.  “How are you?”

She looked grim and raised an eyebrow.  “I’ll admit, I’ve been better. I wish I was seeing you under more amenable circumstances.”

Harry nodded.

“But the important question is, how is Professor Malfoy?”

“Why don’t you ask him yourself?” 

She gave Harry a nod and he led her over to where Malfoy was acting something out for Chelsea.  They were both laughing.

“Professor Malfoy.”

The smile and color drained from Malfoy’s face.  He glanced up, then jumped to his feet immediately, extending a nervous hand to McGonagall.  When she didn’t shake it, he looked like he might be sick, until she reached forward with both arms and wrapped them around him in a rare expression of her feelings.

Malfoy’s face was pinched.  Tentatively, he reached up and hugged her back.  “I’m sorry,” he mouthed, at first too quiet to be heard.  “I’m sorry.” He said it again, louder. She pulled back a bit and looked at him, her eyes narrowed in concern. “I—I’m so—I’m so sorry.” Then, as if he couldn’t help himself, he crumpled against her, covering his mouth with one hand to stifle silent gasping sobs, while McGonagall patted his back and told him it was okay.

Feeling as though he were interrupting something private, Harry turned away from them, and tried to busy himself by cleaning up the snack table.

He couldn’t help feeling proud, though, when he snuck a glance over at the two of them and saw McGonagall holding Malfoy’s hands while he spoke to the floor, and later, the two of them laughing and talking like old friends.

….

….

….

When he met with Malfoy later that day, Harry was sure he’d never seen the bloke in better spirits.  After the visitors had left, Malfoy changed back into his pajamas for his meeting with Harry, but his face and posture were confident, telling a very different story than his pajama-only days usually did.

“How did it go?” Harry asked, unnecessarily.  Clearly, it had gone well.

Malfoy was beaming.  He gave a little nod.  “It was good.”

Harry smiled back.  “I’m glad to hear it.”

Picking up the cards for no reason other than habit, Malfoy occupied his ever-nervous fingers by shuffling the deck.

“So?” Harry prompted.  “How was your mother?”

“Good,” he said, a bit evasively.  “She brought me a gift basket.”

“And your father?”

“He didn’t yell,” said Malfoy, “though, I suppose I should have expected that.  We were in public, after all, regardless of the poor quality of said public.”

Harry ignored that comment and brought up the question he knew Malfoy was waiting for.  “And, how was McGonagall?”

He set the cards on Harry’s desk and gave a sort of watery smile.  “Good.”  He laughed, softly.  “Too good.”

“What do you mean?”

Malfoy wiped a hand across his brow. “I don’t know what I was expecting.  Confrontation, for sure, but there wasn’t even that.”  He frowned.  “Which, in a way,  makes it worse.”

“Why?”

“Because, I _should_ get yelled at.” He picked the cards back up.  “You know?  What I did to her was—” he shook his head.  “Deplorable.”  After a moment he added, “Unforgivable.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Well, apparently not.”

“Apparently,” Malfoy echoed, his voice distant. 

“I don’t think you realize how highly Professor McGonagall regards you.”

Malfoy shrugged, uncomfortably.  “I don’t know why.”

“I do,” said Harry.  Malfoy looked up at him, eyes wide and searching.  Harry took a deep breath.  He never in a million years thought he’d be forced to name all of Draco Malfoy’s positive qualities.  For a long time, he had convinced himself that there weren’t any.  But, when faced with someone whose life-long bravado had been nothing but a mask for insecurity, Harry knew Malfoy could benefit from hearing it.  “First of all,” Harry began, “you’re smart—and according to McGonagall, you’re absolutely brilliant at what you do.  You’re clever and funny.  You have the ability to be understanding to those who are close to you, and when you let them in, it is clear how much they depend on you for guidance.”

Malfoy was pressing his lips together, staring hard at the corner of Harry’s desk. 

“It’s like the way you are with Chelsea,” Harry said, ignoring the feeling of jealousy that came with the name, “and the way McGonagall and Neville say you are with your students.  And, hell, I could see it at Hogwarts—every Slytherin looked up to you and it wasn’t just because you were their bastard of a leader, like I thought.”

Malfoy snorted.

“You took them under your wing.  Crabbe and Goyle, Pansy Parkinson.  Malcolm Baddock, even.  You are naturally charismatic and, even when you act like an utter arse, you somehow manage to draw people to you.”

Harry took a brief pause for a sip of coffee.  In that one second, Malfoy, casually looking at his fingernails, asked, “What else?”

Harry felt his lip twitch.  “You’ve always been creative.  And I remember you saying that you never thought you’d be as creative and smart without the Felix, but I think you aren’t giving yourself enough credit.  Those stupid songs and poems you wrote in school, even your insults, were really clever, even if they were meant to be hurtful.”

Malfoy was picking at the card in his hand, peeling the plastic covering off of the edges.  Harry closed his eyes for a moment, reminded himself that it was a 50 pence deck and told himself that it didn’t matter.

“Your presentation with Chelsea was hilarious,” Harry said. “I could tell which parts were yours and which parts were hers and, while you are both very creative, your bits were always funny.”

“And the illustrations?”  Malfoy raised his eyebrows slightly. He was clearly preening under Harry’s praise, even though he was trying not to show it.

“Hilarious,” Harry assured him.

“You didn’t laugh, though.”

Harry sighed. Leave it to Malfoy to notice that, in a room full of laughing people, Harry was the only one who hadn’t.  “I was laughing on the inside,” he promised.  “I think I was in more of a state of shock at the size of my lenses.  Do they really look that ridiculously large or is it just the size of my head?”

Malfoy smirked.  “Both.”

“What about my muscles?”  Harry flexed, jokingly. 

Malfoy huffed. “We’re talking about me right now, not you,” he said, moving his hand in a shooing motion.  “Keep going.”

“I could write a book.”  The second the words came out of his mouth, Harry cringed.

Malfoy shook his head and blinked. “Okay.” He let out a short laugh. “Whatever that means.”

It meant a whole lot more than was appropriate, Harry knew. “I’m not going to sit here and compliment you all day—”

Malfoy pretended to pout.  “Pity. Why _not?_ It’s such fun.”

“Just, suffice to say, you are much more capable than you give yourself credit for.  McGonagall knows it.  I know it.  It’s time you know it.”

His feel-good comment was met with a frown.

“What?” Harry asked.

“There is something I didn’t tell you,” Malfoy said, looking worried.  “McGonagall doesn’t know, either.”

“What?” Harry felt his stomach turn.

Malfoy raised his hands to gesture then dropped them.  He sighed. “The reason,” he cleared his throat, “the only reason that she hired me at all is because I took Felix Felicis that day.”

Harry just looked at him.

“She never would have hired me, otherwise.”  Malfoy’s voice was quiet, guilty.  “So, I cheated.  And the job never should have been mine in the first place.”  He looked up at the ceiling and shook his head. “God, I’ve been lying to her from the moment she agreed to give me a second chance.”

“So, what are you saying?” Harry asked.  “You don’t believe you deserve your job?”

“Obviously.”

Harry looked at him.  The excitement had worn off and, despite the compliments, Malfoy’s shoulders were drawn in again and hunched, his body exuding guilt and vulnerability.  “Look,”Harry said.  “Remember when I came to Malfoy Manor to bring you back?”

Malfoy’s face twisted at the memory.  He nodded.

“And I yelled at you for manipulating me into offering you a place to stay?”

Malfoy nodded again.

“Do you remember what you told me?”

“I told you—” Malfoy’s voice was stilted, “—I told you that the potion didn’t work that way.  That you wouldn’t have offered if you hadn’t really wanted to.”

“That’s right,” said Harry.  “Yes, the potion was a bit of encouragement for things to happen your way, but in the end, the decision to bring you to my house was my own.”

“That isn’t what you said that night.”

“Well, I was just freaking out because I knew how much trouble I’d get in if anyone found out.”

“So, because of me, you did something that you didn’t want to do.”

“That isn’t what I’m saying at all,” Harry huffed.  “If I could go back in time and change my actions, I wouldn’t.  I wanted you to have a safe place to stay.  And I wanted you to stay with me.  The potion was—maybe—just a bit of encouragement, if that.”

“How can you be sure?” Malfoy asked.

“I just am,” Harry said with a frown.  “People like myself and Professor McGonagall have nothing to gain by lying to you. And you’ll just have to trust that.”

Malfoy bit his lip, nodding slowly.

Harry eyed the pile of peeled up plastic coverings, then looked at the person who had made it.  “And even more than that,” Harry said, “you have to learn to trust yourself.”

….

….

….

It was a couple of days later when Chelsea went missing.  This time, they were certain that she had simply walked out of the clinic and out of St Mungos, entirely.  Her wand was still there, but, with addicts, that didn’t tend to be enough to keep them there.

Technically, they were free to go at any time.  Chelsea, however, had a court order to remain there, with the threat of Azkaban upon incompletion.

The patients were visibly nervous and upset.  She’d only had two weeks to go and, on paper, she had been doing so well.  Harry, however, was not overly surprised.  The way she would talk about Loof and the sadness in her eyes when no one had bothered to show up for a simple visitation day, were not things easily overcome by someone in her situation.

Harry sat in his office, reviewing her file, when he heard a knock at the door.  “Come in,” he said.

The door opened before he could unlock it.  Ron’s familiar face set him at ease until Harry realized that he was with another Auror and this was not a social call.

“Ron.” Harry stood, quickly.  “Hey, what’s up . . . ”  He nodded toward Ron’s partner.  “Auror Daniels.”

“Healer Potter,” the Auror greeted back.

“Hey, Harry,” said Ron.  He was frowning.

“Is everything alright?”

“No,” Ron said.  “There’s a bit of a problem, actually.  And we need to take Malfoy.”

Harry was immediately defensive. “Why?”

Auror Daniels looked ready to step in, but Ron held a hand out to stop him.  Harry, apparently, got special privileges that were not awarded to other non-Aurors.  “We were investigating the disappearance of your patient, Chelsea Gouck—”

“Surely you don’t think Malfoy—”

Ron waved a hand.  “Shh—just be quiet, Harry.  Listen to me.”

Harry closed his mouth, biting his tongue to keep from speaking.

“We found Chelsea.” Ron bowed his head slightly.

“Oh, no,” Harry murmured, his hand flying instinctively to cover his mouth.  “Is she—?”

“Yeah,” Ron nodded, solemnly.  “I’m sorry, Harry. By the time we found her . . . ”

He dropped his head. “Fuck.” Harry could feel the tears coming and swallowed hard to stop them.  “Where?”

“That’s the thing,” Ron said, exchanging a look with Daniels.  “Remember how you had me look into that bloke Gricharak?”

Harry nodded.

“Well, we found her at his flat,” Ron said.  “There was an anonymous call, but by the time we got there, she was dead and Gricharak was missing.”

“You’re not serious?”  Harry was horrified.  “Was it drugs?”

Ron nodded. “We think.” He glanced at Daniels.  “There’s more.”

Daniels began speaking.  “We found some incriminating registers at Gricharak’s house which, more or less, serve as records that he was dealing.” 

Harry nodded.  “So what does this have to do with Malfoy?”

“Malfoy’s name was in them, Harry.” Ron shifted, uncomfortably. “According to the records, he provided Gricharak with a number of ingredients, as well as illegal potions.”

Harry closed his eyes, his knees feeling weak.  “How sure are you?”

“’S hard to say without speaking to him first,” said Ron with a grimace.  “But, I’m going to be honest. It doesn’t look good.”

“The ingredients that Gricharak claims to have received from Malfoy are the same used to make Loofsnaarp,” Daniels said.

Harry felt sick.  “So,” his voice shook and he cleared it, “so you’re saying that he may be connected to Chelsea’s death?”  

“If Gricharak’s records are accurate,” Ron said, “and depending on the autopsy . . . ”He sighed. “Look, I know you don’t want to hear this, Harry.  But you need to take us to him now.”

“Fuck,” Harry swore.  It couldn’t be true.   _It wasn’t_.

Besides the jail time and legal trouble, if Malfoy had played a role in Chelsea’s death, however minor, it would _destroy_ him.  Malfoy wasn’t responsible, of course. Harry _knew_ that, but, still.  Malfoy would definitely jump to that conclusion.

“Harry—”

“Fine,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair.  “Follow me.”  He led them down the hallway, his every step feeling like a betrayal.

Harry opened the door to Malfoy’s room and held a hand back to Ron and Daniels, signaling for a moment alone.

“Don’t you knock?” Malfoy asked, but there was no real bite to his voice.  He glanced up from the book he was reading— _Bobby the Beater, A Russian Elf-Air_ —and gestured to the seat beside his bed.

Harry shut the door behind him and swallowed.  What was he supposed to say?  Something significant.  Something that would give him hope, right?  Let Malfoy know he still believed in him?

“Potter,” Malfoy was scrutinizing him and his voice was suddenly urgent.  “What is it? What’s wrong?” His eyes went wide.  “Did they find Chelsea?”

Harry nodded tightly, unable to look at Malfoy. 

“And?”

Harry shook his head.

“Son of a bitch,” Malfoy breathed.  He dropped his head into his hands and squeezed his eyes shut.  “Dammit.” 

Harry took another step into the room. 

“Dammit!” Malfoy threw his book down. When he spoke again, his voice was barely more than a whisper. “Loofsnaarp?” 

“Most likely.”

“ _Fuck_.”

“Malfoy—”

“Look, Potter,” his voice was tight, shaking.  “I know you’re trying to help, but—just leave me alone for a bit, yeah?” 

Harry shook his head.  “I’m sorry,” he said.  “I can’t.”

Malfoy’s eyes flashed, but before he could say anything, Harry interrupted, trying to get it out in one big rush.  Like a bandage, best to pull it off quickly.

“They found her at Gricharak’s. And the Aurors have reason to believe that you were supplying Gricharak’s operation.”

Malfoy blinked, stunned. “What?”

“They’re waiting for you.” He gestured toward the door, the words thick as tar on his tongue. “They’re outside the door right now.”

Malfoy’s eyes grew impossibly wide and he scrambled back on his bed.  “What-what do you mean? _Who?”_

“Aurors.”

He gaped.  “Wh-for what? I didn’t do anything!”

“They say they just need to ask you a few questions . . .”

Malfoy stared at him.  Then his face twisted up. “You’re lying,” he sneered.  “It’s worse than that.  They must have something on me or you wouldn’t be acting as if I’m walking to my execution.”

“They do,” Harry admitted, shaking his head. “He had registers.  Orders with your name on them.”

“I swear to you,” said Malfoy, his eyes pleading, “I didn’t _do_ anything.  Whatever it is that they think I did, I didn’t do it.”

Harry hated himself for saying it, but he couldn’t stop. “What about when you were blacked out?” he whispered.

The effect of Harry’s words were shattering. “You don’t believe me,” Malfoy said, shaking his head.  “You never did, did you?  You were just humoring me all along.”

“No, I wasn’t—but—” Harry reached out a hand.

“Fuck you,” Malfoy hissed, viciously.  Harry pulled his hand back.  “Stay the hell away from me.”

There was a knock on the door.

“Well?” said Malfoy, nastily.  “Aren’t you going to open it?”

No.  Malfoy was _not_ going to get hauled out of here thinking that Harry didn’t believe in him. 

“Listen to me, you bastard,” Harry whispered.  “I _do_ fucking believe you. Okay?  But I’m not the one you need to convince.  These are the questions that the fucking Aurors are going to ask you and let me tell you something, ‘I don’t remember’ is not going to get you very far.”

“But, I _don’t_.”

“Then you better get real creative, real fast, because that flimsy answer isn’t going to cut it.”

“Potter. What do I do?” Malfoy looked frantic.  He was clutching, white-knuckled, at his sheets.

“Whatever you need to.  Ask for Veritaserum.  Hell, ask for a Pensieve and give them your fucking memories if you have to.”

“My memories?”  Malfoy sounded horrified.  “Are you mental?”

“Do you have something to hide?” Harry demanded.  “If you do, say so now.”

“No, but—”

“Then do whatever it takes.”

There was another knock at the door.

“This is not the end for you,” Harry said, placing a hand on Malfoy’s shoulder.  “You’re going to figure this out and then I want to see you back here to finish your goddamn recovery. You’re not giving up.”

“Harry?” Ron called from outside.  “Harry, we’re coming in.”

“Do you understand me?” Harry demanded.

Malfoy looked determined.  He nodded slowly.

Without thinking, Harry reached forward and wrapped Malfoy into his arms.  Malfoy was trembling violently, but he reached out and hugged Harry back, his fingers clinging to the material of Harry’s shirt as the door banged open.

Ron’s gaze fell on Harry and Malfoy and his eyebrows nearly rose off his face.

“Draco Malfoy,” said Auror Daniels, unfazed by their display, “you’re under arrest for the trade of illegal potions and ingredients with the intent of future sale.”

Malfoy unraveled himself from Harry and stood, a picture of false poise.  He held his hands out as Ron placed them in a magical binding.  Malfoy’s confidence faltered only for a second when he caught Harry’s eye, then he straightened and followed the two Aurors out of the clinic.

….

….

….


	6. Chapter 6

Harry was frantic.  He didn't know what to do.  Everything inside told him that he had done the wrong thing, even though, obviously, he'd had no choice.

How could someone feel guilty for something that wasn't really their fault?

Easy, replied a voice in his head.  

….

….

….

Unsure of what to do, Harry began stomping back to his office.  On the way, he ran into Joe and Clark who had clearly just witnessed Malfoy's arrest by the DMLE and were haunting around the corridors in search of gossip.

Harry ignored them.

He locked the door of his office and slunk down in his chair, head in his hands.  This wasn't how it was supposed to happen.  Malfoy was going to be cured.  He was going to get better and leave his addict life behind him.

And Chelsea.   _Merlin_.  Chelsea was going to go to Art school.  She'd been accepted, months ago, before her addiction and estrangement from her parents got really bad.  It had been the one beacon of light in her dark world —the only thing that gave her hope for the future.

Now, she had no future.  She was dead.  

Harry felt like he was going to sick-up all over his rented desk.

Knowing there was nothing more he could do about either of them, but feeling like an utter failure, anyway, Harry snatched up both of their files and stuck them in his bag.  He would go over them tonight.  He would go over them again and again until he was red-eyed and exhausted and had figured out what the hell he'd done wrong because somehow—he wasn't quite sure how—but somehow, all of this had to be his fault.

Certainly, McClintock would see it that way.  Two out of eight patients had left the program under Harry's care.  One came back.  Then left again.  

He needed to talk to someone.  But everyone would just tell him it wasn't his fault.  And if it wasn't his fault, then there was nothing he could do to make it better.  

Harry couldn't accept that.  He had to do something.  He couldn't just do nothing while the lives of the people in his care were being ruined, one after another.

But what could he do?

Susan.

No. Baddock.

Baddock would know.  Or, Susan would know.  One of them would know _something_.  They were Healers, too, so they must have some sort of an idea.

But, as Harry took off down the corridor to see if Baddock was in the cafeteria for his mid-morning pumpkin juice, or if Susan was on her way to the bathroom, like she normally was around this time, a voice in Harry's head told him that the answers would not lie with his fellow interns.

Whatever Malfoy needed was somewhere buried within the pile of evidence at the DMLE or with Joseph Gricharak, a powerful, dangerous wizard who clearly stopped at nothing to get what he wanted. 

Well, so did Harry, goddammit.  And even if Malfoy wasn't one hundred per cent convinced of his innocence, Harry was. 

Well, okay, he was was about ninety per cent convinced. Because he had to be.  Because someone had to be.

Harry feared that Malfoy would just roll over and take whatever punishment the Ministry gave him because, deep down, he felt he deserved it.

"Harry?"

"Susan!" Harry spun around.  "Susan. Fuck—"

"Harry, what is it?"

Harry grasped the wall of the corridor for support, nearly pulling down a Helpful Hand-washing sign.  "Chelsea—my patient—she'd dead—" he began.

Susan gasped, and covered her mouth with one hand.

"—and they think Malfoy might have made the Loofsnaarp she overdosed on."

" _What_?"  

The room was starting to spin.  Harry absentmindedly wondered if he should have a seat, when Susan's firm grip wrapped around his upper arm and began dragging him down the corridor.

"Where are we going?" Harry mumbled as his vision doubled.  He was shoved into a room.

Glass bottles, chrome cauldrons and steamy bubbles answered his question.  A brown head was bent over beside a cauldron, jotting something down on a piece of parchment.  Susan cleared her throat and Baddock's head whipped up.  When he spotted Susan, his face broke into a suggestive sort of leer that made Harry feel at once on alert and uncomfortable.  Susan cleared her throat again and jerked her head toward Harry.  Her cheeks were pink and she was looking at the floor.

Baddock's face transitioned into his usual sneer, though his cheeks looked a bit pink, too, Harry noted with growing unease.

Before he could get a chance to ask, Susan blurted out, "Harry needs your help."

Baddock set down his quill and grinned.  "Oh, really?"  He crossed his arms.  "Imagine that. Potter needing my help."

"It's actually a rather nasty situation, Baddock, so if you can stop being an arse for ten seconds, it would be greatly appreciated," said Harry.

Malcolm looked unsure of whether he should keep up his usual diatribe, or let Harry explain himself.  He seemed to be leaning towards the latter though and, for once, gave a reasonable-looking nod toward Harry and Susan, allowing them to speak.

Harry explained the situation and Malcolm surprisingly nodded along, a look of concern on his face.  When Harry got to the part about Malfoy, Baddock interrupted.

"You're joking."

"I wish."

"That's —" he shook his head.  "That's not good, Potter."

"You think?"

"Well, no need to take it out on me."  Baddock raised his hands in the air in a gesture of defense.

"I know," said Harry, glumly.  He sank down on a nearby stool.  "I just don't know what to do."

Baddock gave him a  funny look.  "What are you talking about?  What the hell are _you_ supposed to do about it?" 

Harry scowled. "I don't  know.  Something!"

"Harry was hoping maybe you'd have some ideas," Susan said, gently.  She looked as though she were about to lay a hand on Baddock's shoulder, then hesitated.

Harry sat upright, narrowing his eyes.  "What's with you two?"

Baddock ignored the question.  "So, you didn't know what to do and thought you'd come crawling back to me for advice."

Harry bit his tongue.

"Well," Baddock continued, standing up and making his way around the lab table toward Harry, "it just so happens that I do have a piece of advice for you."

Harry looked up hopefully.

"Go back to the clinic and stop bothering me.  There are six other patients you're still responsible for."  Harry was about to say something when Baddock waved a dismissive hand at him.  "Shoo."

Susan opened her mouth to jump to Harry's defense, but Harry stopped her with a shake of his head and left the lab, slamming the door behind him.

….

….

….

Harry went directly to Hermione and Ron's flat after work.  Hermione had just returned home and was loosening the straps on her heels when Harry tumbled in through the Floo.

"Can you help me with these bloody things?" she called from her crouched position.  “The straps are all-AAUGH! Harry!"

Harry jumped back.

Hermione had a hand over her heart and was breathing rapidly, her eyes wild.  "Merlin!  I thought you were Ron."

Harry shrugged.  "Sorry. Nope-just me."  He nodded toward her shoes.  "Er-you, um, you still need help?"

Hermione kicked the shoes off.  "No, Harry," she said, blushing.  "But, it's kind of you to offer. You're lucky I didn't hex you, you know.  What are you doing here?"

"So, you don't know where Ron is, then?"

She frowned.  "I thought he'd be home by now," she mused, casting a glance behind her, scrutinizing the flat for signs of his presence.  Finding none, she shook her head.  "Guess not."

"Oh," said Harry.  "Well, maybe I'll just come back later—"

"Nonsense," Hermione said, curtly.  "Just give me a minute and I'll put the kettle on."

"No, really–I just wanted to see Ron, that's all."

"Harry," she said, her eyebrows furrowed, "what's the matter?"

A little, unreasonable, part of Harry wanted to be angry with Ron, but he knew that Ron had only been doing his job.  Harry decided to stay and visit with Hermione while they waited for Ron to return home.  She said Harry's nervous fretting called for a stronger sort of tea, and she'd brought out a bottle of Ron's Firewhisky—just for Harry, of course.  Despite several generous helpings, Harry still couldn't bring himself to tell Hermione the whole story, instead, he gave her just the details about Chelsea.

Ron finally arrived, several hours later, looking exhausted.  His face was gaunt and dark shadows were under his eyes.  When he saw Harry, he swore.

"Nice to see you, too," Harry remarked.  

"Ron!"

"Sorry, Herm.  I know why he's here and I just want a bloody moment of peace before dragging this all up again."

"Ron," Hermione said again, this time she was glaring.

"Oh, alright, alright, give me two minutes, will you?"  Ron clapped Harry on the shoulder as he passed through the room, showing through his actions that he wasn't completely annoyed with Harry's presence.  "Also," Ron paused by the door and turned around slowly, "what the hell was with that hug earlier?"

Harry closed his eyes.  He had forgotten about that.  "It's not what you think."

"Well, it was certainly more than I expected." Ron furrowed his brow. "Seriously, Harry?  Malfoy?"

Hermione made a little squeak and Harry's eyes snapped open.  She was gaping like a fish.

Ron noticed this and narrowed in his gaze on her.  "Hermione," he said, slowly, "what do you know? What's going on?"

"Nothing!" Harry interrupted.  A selfish part of him wished it weren't strictly true, but— "Seriously, Ron.  Nothing.  I just—"

"Harry!" Hermione interrupted.  She was wringing her hands in a nervous sort of way. "I told you it was a bad idea.  You could lose your job for this, for Merlin's sakes."

Ron's eyes grew impossibly wide.  "For what?" he breathed, looking back and forth between Harry and Hermione.  "Is he—" Ron looked wildly about the room, "—is he shagging Malfoy?"

Hermione was about to answer for him again, but Harry got there quicker.  "NO.  No, I am not.  Thanks, Hermione, for keeping that a secret. And-No, Ron, before you say anything else, it isn't like that.  And I do have some sense of boundaries, you know.  I’m not about to make moves on a patient."  He frowned. 

“But you said—” Hermione began.

Harry cut her off.  “I know what I said.” He ignored Ron’s spluttering.  “But it wasn’t like that.  Malfoy was scared and-and he trusts, me okay?  I just wanted him to know that I believed him.” 

Ron and Hermione exchanged a look.

"Forget it," Harry huffed.  "Thanks for the—er—tea, Hermione.  But, unless you have any news about Malfoy, Ron, I'll be going."  Harry looked at him, expectantly.  Ron was still gaping.  "Well," Harry prompted. "Do you?"

"Do I what?"

"Have news?" Harry snapped.

"Oh," said Ron, sounding exhausted. "No. Um. No. No news."  He was eyeing the Firewhisky bottle on the table with interest.  "Malfoy's in a holding cell. The interroguhh—" Ron cut himself off at Harry and Hermione's looks of horror, "uh—questioning?  The questioning. Is. Tomorrow?" He gave himself a certain nod when it appeared no one else was going to. "Yeah-yes.  Tomorrow."

….

….

….

Harry sat down at his desk.  He'd been through the files multiple times and still he was no closer to finding a solution to the problem.

It really was all up to Malfoy.  There just wasn't much that Harry could do to help him.

Had there ever been?

Harry could talk to him, compliment him and encourage him, but in this particular line of work, if Malfoy wanted to save himself, it was up to him.

It made Harry question if Rehabilitation was the right line of work for him.

Sure, he had a pleasant bedside manner—with most patients, anyway—but rehabilitation, while important and challenging, perhaps wasn't active enough for Harry.  He needed to be doing something.  Administering potions, casting spells, something, instead of just sitting around, hoping and wishing that what he had said to Malfoy in the past few weeks would be enough.

And that, of course, only mattered at all if the man was innocent.

If he turned out to be guilty . . . well, he'd be going to Azkaban for a while. 

At least he'd be off the Felix, Harry thought with a scowl.

Harry stuffed the papers back into Malfoy's file and unlocked the desk drawer, watching it slide open.  His eyes fell upon the vandalized Rubik's Cube, sitting there, innocent as could be.

Idiot, Harry thought fondly, his heart clenching as he lifted the Rubik's cube out of the drawer.  He held it for a moment, before placing it deep inside the pocket of his Healer's Robes.

….

….

….

Harry was walking to get his third cup of coffee for the day when he saw Ron and Daniels leading someone through the corridor.  The shock of pale hair, at first, caught Harry off-guard.  It couldn't be. Not so soon.

But as they approached, there was no doubt in his mind that the Aurors were accompanying Draco Malfoy.

Harry barely stopped himself from running.  Malfoy was back.  Malfoy was _back_.  That had to mean he was innocent, right?

Walking as quickly as he could without embarrassing himself, Harry's feet skidded to a halt when he saw the look on Malfoy's face.  

He looked awful.

The circles under his bloodshot eyes were dark.  His face was a mixture of exhaustion and anguish and another unnamed emotion that Harry had never seen him wear.  

"Take him," Ron said, sounding exhausted, himself.  "Please. He's all yours."

"You sound glad to be rid of me, Weasley."  Malfoy's tone was unusually even-sounding, despite his gravelly voice.

Auror Daniels was about to say something but Ron, sensing Harry's relief at Malfoy's return, raised a hand to stop him.  Then he stepped forward and pulled Harry to the side.  "I don't know what the hell you see in him, Harry, but take him.  I swear, he's even more insufferable than he was at school."

Malfoy was too far away to hear what they were saying, but he narrowed his eyes at them anyway.  He could obviously tell that they were talking about him.

"Thanks, Ron."  Harry couldn't stop the relieved smile from spreading over his face.  "How'd you find out he was innocent?"

Ron shut his eyes for a moment.  "Pensieve memories."  He sighed.  "You've really got your work cut out for you with this one." He gestured at Malfoy with his thumb.  "What a nutter."

Harry shot Ron an icy glare, despite his curiosity.  What _had_ Ron seen in Malfoy's memories?

Ron raised his hands in defense.  "Woah, sorry, mate."

No matter.  Harry'd get it out of him later.  Right now, he was overjoyed about Malfoy's return, even if the blond looked less than thrilled.  

"Welcome back, Malfoy," said Harry, unable to wipe the grin off his face.

Malfoy just scowled at him as Daniels removed his Magical Binding, then stomped off to his room and slammed the door shut.

….

….

….

"So," Clark said at the next group session.  "Dealing, too, were you?"

Malfoy was back in his hoodie and robe uniform with his hair in a snarled knot and his Falmouth Falcon's traveling mug perched in his lap.  His face held absolutely no expression as he stared out the window, oblivious to all that was happening around him.

Harry didn't know enough about the situation to jump to Malfoy's defense, either, so he remained quiet and waited to see if Malfoy would answer.

He didn't.

"My apologies," snarled Clark.  "Were you dealing, _Professor_?"

"Clark," Marsha began in a warning voice.

"What?" he snapped.  "We already know he was brewing.  He was pretty fucking proud of it, if I recall."

"Potions Master," Joe mused, an eyebrow raised.  "Probably knows how to make all sorts of things.  Probably how he got all that money for those Muggle Charities that he so deeply cares for."

"Imagine that," said Clark, "a Death Eater caring for Muggles.  Could there possibly be a better way to win favor for yourself in the public eye?"

"The Malfoys always were so good at that," chided Joe.  "But then they lost their money.  It must be difficult to make million-Galleon donations on a Professor's salary."

"Yes," said Malfoy, suddenly.  His voice sounded dead and he was still looking out the window.  "It is."

The other patients looked at each other uncomfortably, then back at Malfoy to see if he'd say anything else.

He didn't. And, thankfully, the others left him alone, but not without a few dark glares in his direction. If Chelsea had been there, she would have offered words of comfort, but no one else in the group had really warmed up to Malfoy.  If they _had_ spoken to him, it was only  because he was with Cheslea.  With Chelsea gone, Malfoy was alone again, Harry thought sadly. 

….

….

….

"So," Harry said, after ten silent minutes passed during Malfoy’s one-on-one session.  Harry still didn't know what had happened to prove Malfoy's innocence and his curiosity was killing him.  "What happened?" 

Malfoy was pinching the coil from a now-disassembled ballpoint pen that Harry had, regrettably, left out on his desk.  Malfoy released the coil and watched as it sprang up into the air before falling on the carpet somewhere near Harry's feet.  Harry discreetly placed his shoe over it to prevent Malfoy from finding it.

"You didn't ask Weasley?"  Malfoy narrowed his eyes.

He had.  But Ron stuck with the confidentiality clause for the first time in his life, refusing to tell Harry anything.  He had a suspicion that Hermione had something to do with that, if only for the reflection of her nodding head that Harry could see out of the corner of his glasses lens.  "Nope."

Malfoy raised his eyebrows in disbelief.  Then shrugged.  "I was innocent."

"Ron said you gave Pensieve memories," said Harry.

"I thought you said he didn't tell you."  There were blotchy pink spots on Malfoy's cheeks that spread unattractively into his neck.  He picked up the tube from the ballpoint pen and began to examine it.

"That's all he told me," said Harry.  "Why didn't you try Veritaserum first?"

Malfoy looked up in disbelief, then laughed.  "He _really_ didn't tell you?"

"No." Harry shook his head.  "He really didn't tell me."

Malfoy seemed to like this answer and gave Harry a tiny, approving nod that shouldn't have made Harry feel as proud as it did—especially considering the fact that Harry had, in all honesty, pressed Ron for information.  Finally, Malfoy said, "They did."

"Did what?"

"Veritaserum."

"And?" prompted Harry.

Malfoy shook his head slightly.  He looked up at the ceiling. "Humiliating."

"Sorry to hear."

"Even worse was that it didn't help," Malfoy said with a  frown.  "All I managed to say was that I didn't remember.  Because I didn't."

"But you gave them memories?"

Malfoy dropped his head in his hands and rubbed his eyes.  He sniffed. "Yeah." Then cleared his throat. "Yeah."

Harry waited for him to continue.

"It's so odd, you know?"  Malfoy began, biting a hangnail.  When he noticed what he was doing, he ripped his hand away from his mouth and frowned at it, accusingly.  

"What is?"

"That-that you have these memories in your head of things you did, but can't remember."  He let out a short laugh through his nose.  "You could probably make loads of money marketing that to the Sunday Brunch crowd."

Harry gave him a half-smile in return.

"Until they realize they'd pay money to go back to a state of blissful ignorance."  His grey eyes darkened.

"Tough to watch?" Harry guessed.

"A ridiculous understatement, Potter," said Malfoy, gesturing grandly with one hand. "If I could have, I would have gouged my eyes out, but the Aurors don't allow for any sharp objects in the holding cell."

Harry frowned.

"On the plus side," Malfoy laughed a little hysterically, "I can say with certainty that I will never touch a vial of that liquid fucking shite again."

"That's . . . good."  Harry tried to make his stilted voice sound bright.  He wanted to know what Malfoy had seen.

"Yeah," said Malfoy, parroting Harry's false brightness.  "Nothing like watching yourself run around your flat in circles, downing bottles of Felix and talking to yourself like a paranoid, raging, fucking maniac to convince you that perhaps you have a little bit of a problem."

"So . . . how did they disprove the evidence in Gricharak's flat?"

"Oh," said Malfoy, waving a casual hand, "it was all true."

"What?"

"Lucky for me, though, I'm a greedy son-of-a-bitch."  Malfoy grinned and raised his eyebrows. "I swallowed the entire order before Gricharak's men came to pick it up."

Harry gaped.

"All twelve bottles."

"Twelve?" Harry gasped.  " _Twelve_?"

"That's right," said Malfoy, still speaking with an annoying bravado.  "It's funny, really—"

Harry somehow doubted this.  

"—when Gricharak's men showed up at my flat, demanding to know where their order was, I started touching my Mark and trying to summon the Dark Lord."

Harry couldn't help the disgusted grimace of shock on his face.

"That's right," Malfoy continued, nodding with approval at the look on Harry's face. "I tried to summon the Dark Lord," he said.  "And then, I ran through my lab like a bloody lunatic, Vanishing every last ingredient that I had purchased with the Hogwarts funds for Gricharak."

The quill quivered in Harry's hand, itching to take notes, but Harry couldn't bring himself to tear his eyes away from Malfoy.  Harry sincerely hoped the look on his face was not as offensive as it felt.

"It was hilarious in a way, really," Malfoy insisted with a laugh.  "Gricharak gave me two million Galleons in exchange for Felix and rare Potions ingredients, with the expectation, of course, that I would continue to supply him."  He burst out laughing.  "And I drank it all!  All of it!"  

"You could have died," Harry uttered, horrified.

"Well," said Malfoy, "I didn't.  Thanks to you."  Malfoy started laughing again.  His cheeks were deeply flushed and there were tears forming in his eyes.

Harry began to grow angry.  He'd seen Malfoy that night.  And there was nothing funny about it.  "It isn't funny," he growled.

"It kind of is," Malfoy laughed, shrugging.

"No," snapped Harry, "it really isn't."

"Calm down, Potter—"

"No."  

Malfoy's smile faded. "I never sold anything.  And I’m fine now."

" _Now_."  Harry couldn't help himself.  "What could have made you do something so stupid?"

Malfoy opened his mouth and then shut it, taken aback.  Then, quietly, "But, I'm innocent." 

"What if you go and do something like that again?"  Harry was shouting now.

"I said I wouldn't, didn't I?" Malfoy shouted back.  "Did you miss the entire point of this conversation?"

"You can't do that!" Harry yelled.  "And you can't just laugh about it!"

"Why not?  Why can't I laugh about it?"  Malfoy's voice was strained.  "Laughing seems a hell of a lot better than the alternative!"

"Which is what?" Harry growled, even though he knew the answer.

"It's in the past, Potter.  I'm not going to do it again.  I said I was embarrassed, didn't I?" Malfoy asked.  "What the hell is your problem, anyway?"

"You're leaving in a week and I'm bloody fucking scared!" Harry replied, admitting it to himself and to Malfoy for the first time.

"You're scared?" Malfoy's voice was almost a squeak.  "Just how do you think I feel, Potter?"

"You think it's funny," Harry said, petulantly, hating how whiny he sounded and wondering what Malfoy could even say to make Harry feel any better about this.  Nothing, probably.

Malfoy looked down at the floor.  "I don't really think it's funny," he whispered. "Okay?"

Harry didn't say anything.

"How did you miss the part when I said I wanted to gouge my eyes out?"  Malfoy scowled.  "It was disgusting.  Nauseating.  Like a nightmare, but worse."  He looked up at Harry, his face pinched.  "Because it was real.  I did those things.  I acted like that—like a—like a  fucking animal."

"But-"

"How the fuck do you think I feel?" Malfoy hissed, gesturing at himself.  "When you look in the mirror in the morning, what do you see?  A hero?  A healer?"  Malfoy continued without letting Harry answer that he saw none of those things.  "Well, do you know what I'm going to see now?  That."  He pointed to the wall, as if indicating the Pensieve memories. "A pathetic, raving lunatic who tried to summon the Dark Lord to beat up a pack of drug dealers."

"You were out of your head," Harry said weakly.

"No, you're out of your head," Malfoy retorted.  "Honestly.  What are you thinking?  I was proud?"

Harry sighed.  "No. I don't know."  He gave an agitated shrug. "It just scares the hell out of me, hearing things like that about someone I care about."

Malfoy picked up on the words before Harry did, his face softening, then reforming into a smirk.  "Do you, now?"

Harry cursed under his breath.  Just like him, to serve Malfoy the upper hand on a silver platter.  

"Well, well, well," Malfoy mused aloud, tapping his chin. "Harry Potter cares about me?"

Sighing, Harry rolled his eyes.  "Come on, you prat.  You know I do."

A tiny smile lit Malfoy's face as he stared down at the remains of Harry's pen. "Yeah," he said.  "I do."

….

….

….

In Art Therapy, Malfoy had been working on a secret project by himself.  Harry deduced that it included some level of art and writing, but beyond that, he wasn't quite sure what Malfoy was up to.

On the plus side, Malfoy's location in the therapy room seemed to gravitate closer to Harry each day, until the two sat on opposite benches of the same table, exchanging frequent remarks about nothing in particular.  Harry found himself asking Malfoy for help on his word scrambles and even sharing his victory with him when he managed to solve the final Riddle-Quip for the first time in his life.

Even though it was against the rules, Harry began grabbing two cups of coffee in the cafeteria during his morning break, and slipping one of the sugar-loaded drinks to Malfoy as he worked on his project.

Malfoy never said thank you, but the look of gratitude on his face, and the feeling of delight that Harry experienced in sharing a secret with Malfoy, was thanks enough.

….

….

….

Patient turnover happened quickly in the Rehabilitation Clinic.  First Joe, then Marsha had a Sobriety Ceremony and send-off.  Several days later was Clark's farewell and what should have been Chelsea's.

At the celebration, which had far less tears than most, owing to the fact that Clark was a right twat (and Harry could think that now, because Clark was officially no longer his patient), Malfoy proclaimed that he was ready to share his project.

He said it was in honor of Chelsea.

Well, of course, Harry had to let him.  And, secretly, he knew that Malfoy was pleased that his presentation would detract from the attention being given to Clark.  

Malfoy had bathed that morning, it seemed, and had also taken the time to pull together a relatively nice-looking outfit.  Overall, he looked miles healthier than he had a few weeks ago.  He had even gained a several pounds, filling out his gaunt face and making him look even more handsome than he already had.

Malfoy held a stack of newspapers and stood before the patients and Healers.  Harry frowned, curiously.

"A friend of mine," Malfoy began, "works as a publisher for a newspaper."  He gave Harry a meaningful look and Harry wondered if Malfoy could possibly mean Luna.  They weren't friends, were they?

Malfoy began to pass the newspapers out.  One look at The Quibbler's cover answered Harry's question.

Apparently, so.  Even after being held captive in Malfoy's basement, Luna had allowed a friendship to blossom.  She really was an amazing person.

"Chelsea always wanted to write for the newspaper," Malfoy said, his voice cracking slightly.  He paused and swallowed.  "These are early editions of next month's issue.  You can—" he cleared his throat.  "Um. Turn to page sixteen. The poetry section."  He waved a hand that moved much more casually than the rest of his tense body.  "There's a spread."

One by one, the patients found page sixteen and each and every person had a deep and powerful reaction to it.  There was a self-portrait that Chelsea had drawn along with a more cartoonish version that was, quite obviously, Malfoy's.  Around the pictures and drawings were pieces of her poetry and in between those were quotes, things that she must have said to Malfoy at some point—things that meant something to him.

"How did you get these poems?"  Harry managed to ask, when he knew he'd be able to speak without embarrassing himself.

Malfoy shrugged, looking uncomfortable.  "I just did."

Harry frowned, suddenly suspicious  He pulled Malfoy off to the side and fixed him with a glare that demanded answers.

Malfoy crossed his arms arms and sighed.  "You shouldn't leave your drawers unlocked, Potter.  It's not very professional."

"You took these from my desk?"  Harry gasped.  

"From her Recovery Journal, specifically."

"You can't read that!"

"Why not?  You read mine,"  Malfoy drawled.  

“Shh!” Harry cast a nervous glance around to make sure the other patients hadn’t overheard.

"And, anyway,  it's not like I hadn't already seen them,” Malfoy said, not bothering to lower his voice.

Harry stared at him, blankly.

"She showed them to me, Potter."  Malfoy rolled his eyes.  "She would have wanted them published.  Trust me."

"Trust you," Harry said, doubtfully.

"Oh, you know what I mean."  Malfoy waved Harry off dismissively, then gestured him back with the same hand, pointing at the newspaper.  "Did you read this one?"

"Malfoy," said Harry, "why did you do this?"

Malfoy just looked at him, as if he hadn't really considered it before.  Then he simply said, "I had to."

"Why?"

Malfoy blinked rapidly, then looked away.  "Chelsea was—my kindred spirit."  He lowered his voice at the end, rushing the words.

"Huh?"

"Her words, not mine." Malfoy laughed, fondly, then gestured toward his chest.  "You know, similar spirits.  Souls?"

Harry forced out a smile, despite the tightness in his chest.  "You, um." He cleared his throat.  "You liked her, didn't you?"

Malfoy gave him a funny look.  "She was my friend."

"Not—not more than—?"  Harry raised his eyebrows as the voice in his head called out things like 'Shut up, Harry,' and 'Inappropriate!'

Harry's awkward question was met with a very hard look in which Malfoy seemed to be reading exactly into it what Harry had hoped he would not read into it.  His mouth curved into a smile.  "Why, Potter?" Malfoy asked in a low voice.  "Would that have bothered you?"

"Wh-no," Harry spluttered.  "No-just.  Patients aren't supposed to—it's against the rules."

"I see," Malfoy said, crossing his arms slowly over his chest and tapping his fingers against his forearms.  "But the Potter I remember never placed much merit in following the rules."

"Well, some rules are important."

Malfoy smirked.  "Just as long as you keep awarding yourself the right to pick and choose." 

….

….

….

The article about Chelsea prompted an apology from Clark.  If Harry was to be honest with himself, it spoke a lot about Clark's character—or at least his bravery—to be able to approach Malfoy and admit a personal mistake.  Malfoy, however, took it in stride and offered Clark a congratulatory handshake and wished him good luck.

Of course, when Clark wasn't looking, Malfoy still managed to chuck a chess piece at the man's head.  When Clark gave up trying to find the culprit, Malfoy lifted the newspaper and nodded at Chelsea's drawing, as if to say "That one was for you."

….

….

….

Malfoy's final week flew by.  The closer it got to his discharge date, the more nervous Harry became, until Malfoy finally blurted out, "Don't you think I can do it?"

Startled, Harry blinked.  "Of course I do."

"Then why are you acting so nervous?"  Malfoy scowled.  "You're making me nervous."

"Sorry."

"I have some willpower, you know."

"I know."

"No, you don't," said Malfoy. "You act like I'm going to run out of here and start brewing."

"Well, aren't you?"  asked Harry, too tired to be polite.  "That's your job, isn't it?"

"So?"

"So, you'll be going right back to where you were.  Surrounded by ingredients all day."

Malfoy gave Harry an icy glare.  "I thought you wanted me to go back to Hogwarts."

"I do, but—"

"But what, Potter?"  Malfoy was beginning to sound frantic.  "Spit it out!  You said I should go back!  You don't think I can do it there? You-you set up this whole thing with McGonagall and you don't even think I can do it?"

"Stop!"  Harry interrupted.  "You're right.  I'm sorry."

"Because if you don't think I can do it there, then what am I supposed to do?  I can't work anywhere else, Potter.  McGonagall set this whole thing up and—Merlin, what do I have left now? Three days?  You couldn't have said this earlier?  I should've been looking for a job all along, not drawing pictures and singing songs. And I am not going back to my parents’ house, if that's what you think.  Absolutely not, Potter. I—"

"Malfoy-stop! Just-shh!" Harry waved his arms in the air.  "You're right, you're right. I'm sorry."

Malfoy lifted his head and gave Harry a suspicious look down the tip of his nose.

"I just want you to be sure that you have a plan," said Harry.  "It isn't realistic to think that you're going to walk back into that environment where you were brewing and using and not be tempted to do it again."  Harry sighed.  "If you don't have a plan—if you don't know exactly how you're going to handle that situation when it happens, because it will—then you're. . . fucked."

Looking worried, Malfoy began gnawing on the inside of his cheek.  "It's going to happen, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"Then," Malfoy frowned, as if thinking, "then I'll ask McGonagall for a different environment."

"What do you mean?"

"I've lived in that god-forsaken dungeon for the majority of my life."  He frowned.  "Merlin, is that true?" He shook his head.  "Anyway, I reckon those Muggle scientists are onto something when they say people need exposure to sunlight."

Harry grinned.  "And since when do you read about discoveries in Muggle Science?"

Malfoy huffed.  "I am a Potions Master.  I need to know all sorts of things like that."

Harry supposed it was true.  After all, Muggle Sciences was a part of his own Healer training.  "So," Harry raised his eyebrows, "are you gonna ask for a room up in Gryffindor Tower?"

"As if," Malfoy said with a sniff.  "No.  I think I'd like a room in Ravenclaw."  After he said it, his eyes lit up.  "They do have the best library, and loads of windows, oh! And Flitwick."

"What about Flitwick?" Harry asked.

"He's a real jokester," Malfoy replied.  Harry couldn't tell if he was being honest or not.

"Really?"

Malfoy nodded.  "Oh, yes.  He mail-orders these ridiculous jokes and gag books. Ask your Weasel friend about him.  I think he's got a Platinum Membership at their store."

"Flitwick," said Harry, in disbelief.  "Small, tiny, Charms professor?  Are we talking about the same Flitwick?"

"One in the same," said Malfoy, proudly.  "And you'd be amazed at the advantages of a three-foot height."

"Like what?" Harry asked, carefully, forcing his mind not to go there.

"Oh, you know," said Malfoy, his eyes falling on the mutilated deck of cards.  "Hiding things, sneaking up on people."  He burst out laughing.  "Peeves is fucking terrified of him."

"Seriously?" Harry asked through baffled laughter.

Malfoy shook his head and smiled fondly, clearly lost in memory.  "Potter.  A poltergeist can't hold a candle to a prankster with a wand and a full lexicon of Charm spells."  He looked back at Harry.  "When we were students, I always thought Peeves was scared of Dumbledore.  I never would have suspected it was Flitwick keeping him in line."

"Me, neither."

"That's his best trick," Malfoy said with a nod. "No one suspects him."

Harry couldn't help smiling.  "So.  Ravenclaw Tower, eh?"

Malfoy nodded.  "Yes.  I think so."

"That's good," said Harry.  "I think that will help.  And being around Flitwick will be good for you, too."  Remembering what Malfoy had just told him, Harry added, "Well, maybe."

Malfoy sobered.  He looked at Harry then carefully said, "I don't think it's so good for me to be alone."

It wasn't good for most people, Harry knew.  "Why?"

Malfoy shrugged.  "I don't know.  I mean, I always wanted to be alone.  I begged my parents to pay for a private room for me at Hogwarts, but they refused.  They wanted me to "make connections" and all that."

Harry nodded.

"But, I don't know.  Privacy is good.  But too much privacy. . . "  Malfoy brushed back a bit of his hair and finally grabbed for the playing cards, dumping them out into his hand.  "I mean, people have got to answer to someone, haven't they?"

Harry wasn't sure he agreed with this statement.  After all, he answered to no one and it was bliss.  Sure, Hermione checked up on him occasionally, but Harry relished his independence.

Then again, he and Malfoy were very different.  And their upbringing was very different.  Malfoy'd had a doting mother and, well, an involved father, anyway.  Harry'd had three people who may have shared a space with him, but only to yell at him to do the dishes or clean up Dudley’s broken toys. 

"I don't know," Malfoy said again, shuffling the cards the way Harry had shown him, despite the fact that they were ripped, bent and all facing different directions.  "Maybe that means I'm not ready for this."  He looked up at Harry.  His face was determined, but the vulnerability in his eyes begged Harry to disagree.

"You are ready," Harry insisted.  "And recognizing that you need to be around others is good."

Malfoy's lips twitched in the corner, in a parody of a smile.  "Being alone . . . there's too much time to think." He wrinkled his nose.  "No one should think that much."

Harry waited for him to continue, as he knew he would.

"Plus," Malfoy looked down at the cards that he'd stopped shuffling, "when I was younger-it was just me.  And," he winced, "believe it or not, I wasn't always a happy child."

Harry could believe it.  He almost wanted to shout, "Obviously!" but knew that would get them nowhere.

"My parents were," he shifted, "wonderful, of course." Then his voice softened.  "That is, when they were around."  Malfoy snuck a look up at Harry, then darted his eyes away again.  "They’re very important people, you know.  That's why they were always so busy."

Harry couldn't help thinking that Malfoy's explanation sounded a lot like something a five year old would repeat, explaining the absence of his parents.

"That couldn't have been easy for you," Harry murmured, hoping he didn't sound too presumptuous.

"No, it wasn't," Malfoy agreed.  "There was no one for me to talk to but the bloody House-Elves and by the time I was seven, I had an adult's vocabulary."  He looked up.  "Not much say when someone can’t exceed present-tense singular verbs and iron’s his ears every time he’s challenged.”

"Did that happen a lot?"

Malfoy shrugged.  "I was a contrary child.  I've always enjoyed debate."

Harry smirked.  "Your House-Elves must have adored you."

Malfoy scowled.  "They didn't, actually."  For a second, Harry wondered if his joke had been out of line, then Malfoy cracked a smile.  "But once I began socializing with others my age, we remedied our differences."

Harry laughed in disbelief. "I see."  Malfoy was ridiculous.  The way he saw the world, and his place in it, was so different than the way Harry saw it.  Especially when they were kids.  No wonder they hadn't gotten along.

"Anyway," Malfoy continued, "I just didn't like it." He frowned. "You know, when I was little I used to write plays.  Mother would sometimes take me to the local theater and I wanted to perform on stage so badly."

"Why does that not surprise me?"

Malfoy smirked. "Well, like I said, I used to write my own plays.  And I'd act in them and star in them, of course.  And I'd make the House-Elves be in them, too, even though none of them could really act, except for Junky."

"Junky?"

"That's just what I called him—it was his stage name.  His real name is Jinky," Malfoy said with a shrug. He snickered. "But isn't Junky so much better?"

"It's not very nice . . . "

"I'm not very nice," Malfoy said dismissively.  "Anyway, my point is, I wanted my parents to watch my plays.  Even just one. But they wouldn't.  They never had time and when they did  have time, they had all of the House-Elves working, so they weren't allowed to act."  He was pouting a bit and Harry found it very endearing.  "It wasn't fair." Malfoy scowled.  "I can see you think this is funny."

"No, I don't."

"Aren't your lot supposed to feel sorry for children who never got enough attention?"

"My lot?"  Harry repeated, scoffing.  "If you're looking for sympathy from me, you're barking up the wrong tree." Harry could see Malfoy working himself up into a haughty ball of offense and interrupted.  "I got no attention as a kid.  I lived in my aunt and uncle's house and they hated me.  My real parents—the ones who might have cared about me, like yours did—were killed when I was two years old."

Harry could tell Malfoy was biting back a nasty retort and somewhere in the back of his mind, he appreciated the effort.  Instead, he said, "Surely, it wasn't that bad."

"Actually, Malfoy, it was," said Harry, quietly.  He hated talking about this with anyone and the last thing he wanted was for Malfoy to get the impression that he wanted his sympathy.  He didn't.  He just—he just wanted him to understand.  For some strange reason.  It seemed suddenly very important.  

The fact that Malfoy had never really known the truth about Harry's upbringing had always felt a bit like a lie.  Even though, technically, an omission of truth wasn't a lie,  Harry was fully aware that Malfoy had a very different perception of how he had grown up and Harry felt suddenly compelled to be honest and set him straight.

"Growing up," Harry said, "I never knew about my parents.  I didn't know they were wizards.  I only knew that they had died—in a car crash, my aunt and uncle told me."

Pale eyebrows drew together.

"I had a cousin. Dudley. Basically, he was a fat bastard who used me as his punching bag whenever he got the chance.  And he always made sure he had the chance."  Harry began laughing.  "You reminded me of him, actually."

Malfoy wrinkled his face up.  "What? I'm not fat."

"At the time," said Harry, scoffing at how ridiculous the comparison now seemed, "your personalities were similar.  At least, my first impression of you reminded me of him."

"Of some fat Muggle?"  Malfoy asked.  "Lovely."

"That's the reason I didn't like you," Harry admitted.  "And then you insulted Ron, so—"

"He insulted me first! He made fun of my name."

"I know," said Harry.  "Still."  He shrugged.  "Would it make a difference if I said I was sorry?"

"No," Malfoy bit back.  "But I'd still like to hear you admit you were wrong."

"I wasn't wrong," Harry said, simply.  "You were a right arse."

"Because you were a shite to me first.  You just said so!"

Harry rolled his eyes.  "Okay.  I'm sorry I wasn't nice to you when we met.  I should have you given  you a chance, though I think we can both agree that it wouldn't have made much of a difference in the long run."

"Might've."

Harry sighed.  "What were we talking about?"

"Your sad childhood."

"Oh." Harry tensed up.  "Right. Like I said, my aunt and uncle and cousin hated me.  They never spoke to me unless they were yelling at me about housework or calling me a freak.  And if anything in the house ever went wrong, I was blamed for it, and I'd be locked in my cupboard, sometimes without food."

"Your cupboard?" Malfoy repeated, perplexed.  "Is that what Muggles call their bedrooms?" 

"No," said Harry, matter-of-factly, "they call those bedrooms.  Dudley had two, in fact.  I slept in a cupboard.  Under the stairs."

Malfoy gave him a look like he was speaking a foreign language.  "And when you say cupboard, you mean—"

"Cupboard."  Harry pointed the built-in shelving behind him and the row of cupboards that ran along the back of the room.  He leaned back in his chair and flicked one open.  "Cupboard.  I slept in a cupboard.”

"Are you fucking with me?"  Malfoy's face was twisted up in an odd way.

"No. I wish I was."

"So, you're saying you were an abused child."

Harry shrugged.  "More or less."

Malfoy let out a short, mirthless laugh.  "More or—?  More or _less_?" He slammed the deck of cards onto the corner of the desk.  Some spilled over.  "How did I not know about this?"

"Er," said Harry, "because I didn't tell you?  Only Ron and Hermione knew."

Malfoy gestured wildly.  "That-that's ridiculous!  Why wasn't it in the papers?" He shook his head. "This went on while you were at school?" Harry nodded.  "Wasn't anyone from Hogwarts checking up on you?"

"Sort of," said Harry.  "They knew some of what was going on, but they said it was the safest place for me."

Malfoy looked angry—beyond what Harry would have thought was reasonable.  He stood up.  "Who knew?"

"Uh—"

"Who?"

"Dumbledore, I guess."  Harry was beginning to feel embarrassed.  "Hagrid might've." 

"Did McGonagall know?" Malfoy asked.

The last thing Harry wanted to do was color Malfoy's opinion of his new mentor.  McGonagall was a good woman, besides.  "She didn't know the extent of it," said Harry.  "And I wasn't in any danger, not really."

"She should have known the extent of it!"  Malfoy exploded.  "Someone should have been checking up on you.  Someone should've been putting those Muggles in their fucking place."

"Did Snape—?"

"Snape knew everything about all of us," Malfoy grumbled.  "Unfortunately, he could only do so much to stop our own poor decision-making."

"And do you know about all of your students?" Harry asked, pointedly.

The color drained from Malfoy's face and he seemed to shrink.  Slowly, he shook his head.  Then he sat back down and looked at Harry.  "No.  I have no idea."  He put a hand to his mouth, pressing his fingers into his lips.  "What kind of a person am I?"

"You had a lot–"

"That's not an excuse," Malfoy interrupted.  "Stop making excuses for me!  Yes, yes, Potter. I had a lot on my mind.  A lot of fucking _potions_ , on my mind.  You know who I had on my mind?  One person.   _Myself_."  He reached his hand up and began to rub his forehead.  "What if one of them is being hurt?"

"Then find out about it and do something," Harry said.  "Make it your business to know the business of your students.  Of all the students."

"Should I?"  Malfoy gave Harry a hopeful look.

"Sure," said Harry.  "You've always enjoyed being a busybody and a snoop–I'm sure you'd be perfect at it."

Malfoy was nodding.  Then he smiled.  "Okay.  Yeah." He pointed at Harry's paper.  "There.  That's the second thing I'm going to do differently.  No, the third." He raised his eyebrows.  "Fourth, actually.  Well, go on.  Write them down."

"I'm not your secretary," Harry grumbled, putting his quill to the parchment, anyway. 

"One," Malfoy dictated, "make it my business to know everyone's business."  Harry wrote.  "Two, move into Ravenclaw tower.  Three, chum around with Flitwick."  Harry looked up at him. "Yes, Potter.  Word for word. Write it. 'Chum around with Flitwick.'" He wrote it.  "And fourth, of course, is no Felix."  Malfoy peered at the parchment and squinted.  "No, that isn't what I said.  I said—"

"Well," Harry finished writing and set down the quill.  "I think we should discuss that, too.  The full meaning of sobriety."

"I know the full meaning," he said, looking unhappy.  "It means you can't have anything."

Harry shook his head.  "Not if you're serious about it."

"I _am_ serious," he said in a pouty sort of way. "But what about wine with dinner?  Butterbeer?  The occasional hit of Gillyweed—hypothetically speaking?"

"You shouldn't be on anything mind-altering or mood-altering unless under the care of a Healer," advised Harry.  "Plus, the damage done to your liver was," Harry paused and frowned, "extreme.  I cannot emphasize enough how lucky you are to be alive."

Malfoy flicked a card onto the floor and left it there.

"And even though your liver is healed," said Harry, "it is not ever going to be what it was.  And a Magical Liver Healing is exhausting, both physically and magically.  If you've had it performed once, no Healer worth their salt will do it for you again.  It could send you into a coma or impair your ability to perform magic."

"I can still do magic, right?" Malfoy asked, looking worried.  "You haven't ruined me, have you, Potter?"

"You're fine," said Harry, barely suppressing an eye roll. "As long as you pledge full sobriety."

Malfoy still looked unsure. "You're asking a lot."

"And you're risking a lot," Harry snapped.  He was growing tired of treating Malfoy with silk gloves.  He needed to face reality.

"Fine," Malfoy growled, pointing the Harry's quill.  "Write it down, then."

"I already did," Harry said with a smug smile.

"Bully for you."

"Anything else?"  Harry asked.  "Perhaps you'd like to share the stock room responsibilities with someone who could sort of check in on you."

Malfoy mumbled something that sounded like "Don't need a babysitter."  Then he sat up with a sigh.  "Okay, fine.  Add that, too."  He tapped twice on the desk.  "And make it Preston Bancroft.  He's the only one I trust in my lab.  The little shite."

"Would you like me to add in that last bit?" Harry asked with a smirk.

"Shut it, you."

….

….

….

Before he knew it, Harry found himself carrying two coffees from the cafeteria to the Rehabilitation Clinic for the last time.  It was Malfoy's last day in the clinic, as well as Harry's last day in rotation, as he'd been seeing to Malfoy's case from beginning to end.

The day began like any other.  Blue skies, a bit of a November chill.  Two cups of coffee and a scowl from the cafeteria attendant when Harry presented her with the empty sugar bowl . . . again.

Harry looked around at the patients in the the Art therapy center and realized that they were all different than when he had started his rotation, six very long weeks before.  They'd be in good hands, he knew.  McClintock, though strict and by the book, knew his business.  And tomorrow Susan would be taking Harry's place as the resident intern.  A few of the patients already knew her and everyone that knew Susan loved Susan.

Another young patient had started a week earlier.  Frank was seventeen and Harry was in awe of how quickly he had bonded with Malfoy.  He was a student from Durmstrang, sent to St Mungos because they were the best.  Malfoy was teaching him something on the guitar and Frank, who was usually morose and glum, laughed and reached out to try it.

Harry smiled to himself.  Malfoy, in his own weird way, really seemed to understand children.  Or, at the very least, he really seemed to understand children that were suffering.  He related to them so well—perhaps because he acted like one.  He had a sort of child-like wonder and curiosity with a drive to prove himself.  And–

Harry rolled his eyes.

—Malfoy was throwing chess pieces at patients again to entertain Frank.  Well, when Malfoy found something that worked, he certainly stuck with it.  And, really, Harry thought with grin, some things were more important than following the rules—like making Frank smile. Malfoy seemed to get that.  

Harry hoped he'd be able to use that passion to fuel his return to Hogwarts next week.

….

….

….

Malfoy's Sobriety Celebration was a pleasant affair.  Most of the patients present hadn't known him during his bout of silence and hadn't had the pleasure of seeing his Dark Mark flashed twice in the middle of group therapy.  They seemed to think he was just a mild-mannered Professor. Nothing more.

Ha.

Harry was cutting a slice of cake for himself when Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy showed up at the clinic.  Narcissa was smiling in a forced sort of way, commenting falsely on "how nice" everything was.  Lucius was looking at the cake as though it were poison.  He reached forward and removed the entire plate and fork from Malfoy's hands. His son bit into thin air.

"Hey—" Malfoy began.

Narcissa grasped his hand and began tugging.  "We have cake at home, darling. Mumpy made it just for you."

"But—"

"Draco," said Lucius, "We’re leaving." He lowered his voice.  "Before the reporters get here."

Malfoy's eyes widened.  "They don't know, do they?"

"Not yet," Lucius scowled.  "But there's been talk."

Harry quickly set down his own cake.  Malfoy wasn't supposed to leave yet!  He hadn't finished his coffee.  And Harry had a question about the third clue in the word scrambles.  And Harry hadn't given him his gift basket, yet.

Narcissa was shuffling Malfoy into his room and telling Lucius to pack up his belongings.  Malfoy gave Harry a baffled look and then a shrug.

Harry wanted to give him his gift, but with Narcissa and Lucius watching, it seemed sort of pathetic and silly.  It wasn't like he'd gotten him anything of value. . .

Still.

Harry debated one more second, before muttering, "Bugger all," and dashing to his office to fetch the gift basket.  As he ran down the corridor, he could see Malfoy getting ready to step into the Floo.  "Wait!" Harry yelled.

Malfoy paused.  So did Narcissa and Lucius.  All three of them gave him the same look.  And Harry didn't like any of them. "What, Potter?" Malfoy asked.  "You haven't seen enough of me?  I thought you'd be glad to be rid of me."

"Well, I am," Harry said, then at Narcissa's offended face he added, "sort of." `

"Mister Potter," Lucius' teeth glinted as he bared all thirty-two of them in a terrifying semblance of a smile, "I appreciate you limiting your responses to sentence fragments, but for the sake of time, just say what you want so we can be on our way."

Flustered, Harry held the basket out toward Malfoy.  "This is for you," he said, the words sounding rushed and much less important than he'd made them out to be in his head, yesterday—back when he thought the gesture would be silly and sentimental and not pathetically lame.

Malfoy reached in to start opening it when Narcissa tugged on his arm.  "Later, Draco."  She nodded to Harry.  "Thank you, Potter.  I'm sure he'll adore it, whatever it is."

Harry could see Malfoy growing more annoyed and he hoped it was with his parents and not with Harry.  Though, he should probably hope for the opposite, if he truly had Malfoy's well-being in mind.  

Malfoy hesitated, drawing his eyebrows together.  "I'll open it later?"

Harry nodded.  "Sure."  Then he forced himself to smile.  "Good luck, Malfoy."

Malfoy's eyes blinked rapidly and he looked from Harry to the basket.  "Thanks."  His voice was barely a whisper.  Then he looked back at Harry, eyes wide, and full of an emotion that was both raw and powerful.  "For everything."

They continued to look at each other and Harry couldn't shake the feeling that a hug was the most natural next step.  He began to move toward Malfoy, then hesitated.  The Malfoys were watching Harry with a look of suspicion.  He didn't want to do anything that would potentially embarrass or anger Malfoy.

Harry dropped his arms.  "Okay, then." He nodded toward the Floo.  "Bye."

Malfoy reeled back slightly.  "Okay."  He gave a humorless laugh and stepped back.  "Bye."

And, with that, the Malfoys hopped into the Floo, one after the other, leaving Harry cold and alone with an unexplainable sense of loss squeezing at his chest.

….

….

….

Harry began his rotation in Pediatrics.  The first day, he made a mistake and grabbed two cups of coffee from the cafeteria.  When he realized what he'd done, a lump rose in his throat and he quickly tossed the other coffee in the bin, before he could think too hard about what had happened.

He managed to solve only three out of four word scrambles and didn't even come close to figuring out the Riddle Quip.  Giving up, he settled back into his old routine of checking the papers for any mention of his own name.  And if he happened to see the name of someone he knew, like, say, Draco Malfoy, for instance, well, then, he might read the article.

It was important to stay current.

Of course, it hadn't seemed so important the last few weeks.  Susan was quick to point out that the day Malfoy arrived in Emergencies was the last day she had seen Harry actually read the newspaper.

Susan thought she was so smart.

She also thought Harry was too wrapped up in his own life to notice the looks she gave Baddock when she thought no one else was watching or the way Baddock's eyes fell to the rather large quantity of bosom she had hidden underneath her Healer's Robes.

After a few months, Malfoy's name did start popping up in the papers again.  But this time, it was for a different sort of charitable activity.

He'd taken a sudden interest in the lives of the students at Hogwarts, The Daily Prophet wrote.  It went on to explain how he had made a home visit to a Hufflepuff fourth year from a Muggle-born family.  The girl apparently had a younger sister who was severely physically handicapped.  The family didn't have a lot of money and the younger sister had to sleep in the living room because of her inability to go up and down stairs.

Malfoy didn't have money to give them and there were no potions he could give to help the girl at this stage in her life.  But he returned a week later and began casting a series of extremely complicated spells to make the entire house handicap-accessible for the girl.  

The work he'd done was amazing, the article said.  Revolutionary.  He'd found a way to make Magical alterations that Muggles were able to use in front of each other, without drawing attention.  

The child could be safely transported up and down stairs on her own.  To an untrained eye, one would see the illusion of what one believed should be there—a lift, a ramp.  Sinks could magically lower and raise.  The girl could shower herself, feed herself, cook for herself.

He'd changed her life and made her completely independent.

And there was a picture of Malfoy and the two girls grinning cheekily at the camera, before the Hufflepuff reached up to give him bunny ears.

That picture sat on Harry's nightstand.

He also kept a copy in the pocket of his Healer's Robes.  Right next Malfoy's Rubik's Cube.

….

….

….


	7. Chapter 7

"Harry?" Ron called through the Floo in Harry's flat.

"Ron," Harry yelled, frantically searching the junk drawer in the kitchen for his cufflinks.  "Hey-don't wait up for me, alright?  You guys go on ahead." 

"What's that?" Ron's voice sounded muffled from the next room, as though he were talking to someone else. "Oh. _Fine._ " He paused. Then, louder.  "Harry?"

"Yeah?" Harry hissed as a loose thumbtack pricked his finger.  Why he even owned a thumbtack without a bulletin board was beyond him, but there was certainly no sense in throwing it out. Harry tossed the thumbtack back in the drawer and continued combing his fingers through the debris.  He'd have to remember to take it out later. 

"Hermione says don't be late, Harry."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Tell her thank you," he called out.  He spotted the gold cufflinks, snagged them and slammed the drawer shut with his hip.  Ron was saying something that Harry couldn't hear.  "What?" he called from the kitchen.

" _Shh_ —Hermione, he _will_!" Ron growled in exasperation. He raised his voice. "I said never mind, Harry!  We'll see you there."

The Floo died out and Harry paused by the door of his flat, running through the list of things he needed.  He'd made sure to keep his speech in his work bag this year, so he'd have no problems finding it before the ceremony.  It was deep in his pocket now, the folds of the parchment browned slightly from from the pressure of Harry's Healer Training manuals that he still carried with him every day.

Harry nervously checked his appearance in the mirror.  He couldn’t believe it had been a year since the last Battle Anniversary—and almost eight months since he’d last seen Malfoy.  Ever since his discharge from St Mungos, Malfoy's name had been all over the papers—both Muggle and Wizard—for the life-changing work he'd performed for disabled youth.

It seemed somehow wrong to throw the articles out, so Harry had saved them all.  He'd also cut out every single picture.

Still, despite all of the great things Malfoy was doing, there were still those who looked at him like a pariah.  And when the news of his addiction had inevitably leaked, panicked parents had bombarded Hogwarts and the Daily Prophet with complaints, proclaiming that Malfoy was not only a Death Eater who had risked the safety of Hogwarts students during the war, but that he was also unbalanced and currently a danger and a bad influence on Hogwarts students. 

As far as Harry knew, Malfoy handled the backlash without turning back to potions.  Of course, since Malfoy had never written to him, Harry knew very little, and had been left wondering and worrying.

Reaching up a hand, Harry poked skeptically at his hair, resulting in an increased level of static on his third cowlick.  He sighed.  Hopeless, as usual.

Slipping on his shoes, he said a silent prayer that he wouldn't embarrass himself this year.

….

….

….

For the fifth time in an hour, Harry reached into the pocket of his green-black dress robes to make sure his speech was still in there.  Speaking at public ceremonies never seemed to get easier—no matter how many times he'd done it.  If anything, it got harder since he'd run out of original things to say. Plus, the longer the distance between the battle and present-day, the less poignant Harry's words seemed to be.  

The Battle Anniversary had become an evening of pointless dwelling— like a really terrible school reunion that everyone felt too guilty to miss but no one wanted to attend. Many felt that it was time to put the war behind them; dredging up all the pain and offering vapid words of comfort seemed almost more offensive than just letting the day pass by unnoticed.  So, most people came and got piss-arse drunk which, when he thought about it, was a poor way to commemorate the lives that had been lost.  Still, it wasn’t enough to stop him from running to the drinks table the minute he arrived.

Hermione returned to the Gryffindor table from another trip to the bathroom, her purple satin-covered belly appearing just before the rest of her. Ron leapt out of his seat, nearly hysterical in his attempt to help his pregnant wife back into hers. 

Well, pregnant was an understatement, thought Harry.  Bursting at the seams was a more fitting description.

Ron continued to fawn over Hermione to the point where Harry knew she was growing annoyed —Hermione Granger, no matter her condition, was _not_ a helpless woman— but she fixed him with adoring smiles, all the same.

Ron had really come through for her during the pregnancy.  Their baby was due any day now—a girl, the Healer had said.  Harry, in particular, was excited, as this meant he would become a godfather again.  Strictly speaking, Ron and Hermione were keeping this fact a secret until the baby's birth, but Ron, a terrible secret-keeper, had already informed Harry that the honor would be his—as long as he didn't snitch to Hermione.

Everyone was seated pretty much how they had been the previous year, with a few exceptions. Harry noted smugly that Malcolm Baddock was beside Susan with the Hufflepuffs, loosely grasping her fingers under the table.  

After much prodding in December, Susan finally admitted her relationship with Baddock.  Since coming clean, Baddock had acted like slightly less of a prat around Harry, though that may have been because he'd finally received his promised Mixed Nuts Gift Basket. 

McClintock had offered Harry a position in the Rehabilitation Clinic in January, after he'd taken his final Healers' Assessments.  Harry, however, had politely declined the offer.  It seemed he had a penchant for Pediatrics, too, and Healer Zurich had nearly begged him to join her team.  He found that working with children really suited him.  Harry could understand their fear and insecurity, and also the need to keep a brave face.  For whatever reason, Harry had much more patience with children than with adults, which kept his emotions firmly in check. 

Plus, the toy room at St Mungos was pretty much amazing and Harry relished any chance he had to play with the patients and the toys.  In fact, simply being around children—even sick children—energized Harry so much that he'd dropped his daily caffeine consumption to two reasonable cups of coffee a morning.  And one reasonable cup at lunch.  And, perhaps, an extra cup when he got home from work, if he felt he deserved a treat. 

Harry glanced up at the staff table.

Malfoy's seat had been empty all night. Despite numerous glances at the staff table, the Slytherin table and even a wary peek at the bar, Harry still saw no sign of Malfoy.  He was desperate to know where he was and how he was doing, but he didn't want to _appear_ desperate, so, instead of asking McGonagall, he tapped his fingers impatiently against the table and sipped from him his glass of Firewhisky.

A  hand clamped around Harry's tapping fingers and squeezed.  He stilled and looked up. A concerned frown was marring Hermione's soft features. "Harry, will you settle down, please?" she asked him.  There was a hint of humor on her face.  "He'll be here."

"What are you talking about?" Harry replied, listlessly.  They both knew exactly who she was talking about, but Harry felt it was necessary to keep up the facade. 

Hermione rolled her eyes.  "Look," she said, pointing to a thick, gold-bordered sheet of parchment on the table.  "He's speaking tonight.  See?"

"Who?" Harry asked, innocently.  A mixture of relief and anxiety flooded him as his eyes zeroed in on Malfoy's name.  "Flitwick?"

She tsked. "Oh, it's _Flitwick_ you're hoping to see, is it?" she asked, giving Harry a doubtful look.

"Mmm hmm," Harry murmured, looking back up at the staff table.  "I hear he's really funny."

"Flitwick?" Hermione wrinkled her nose.  "Funny?"

"Funny looking!" Ron interjected, catching the last few sentences of the conversation. 

"Ron!" hissed Hermione.

 "What are we talking about?" Ron asked, shoving a handful of crackers in his mouth.

"Flitwick speaking tonight," Hermione supplied, never removing her eyes from Harry.

Ron grabbed the paper.  "Let me see that." His eyes roved over the list.  "Oh.  There you are, Harry. You’re first. Ha—good luck with that. And—hmm.  Well, I don't see Flitwick on here, but look who is!"

Harry and Hermione exchanged a look.

" _Malfoy_."  Ron waggled his eyebrows at Harry who almost spit out his drink. "What?" Ron asked defensively.  Hermione bowed her head, blushing.  "Oi-what?  You think I didn't know about your little—" he waggled his eyebrows more and hummed suggestively.  He pointed at Harry and then Hermione before shoving another cracker in his mouth. "You two can't keep secrets from me," he said, spraying a shower of cracker crumbs onto the table and quickly brushing them off.

Harry scowled, mostly because he was sure nothing good would come of fancying Malfoy.  He'd let his imagination run wild over the past year as he'd pictured himself reuniting with Malfoy and maybe even spending time together.  When that didn't happen, Harry thought Malfoy might write to thank him for the gift basket—even just a simple, short owl to let Harry know how he was doing.

He hadn't.

The more Harry thought about it, the more he realized what an impractical fantasy it had been.  The trust they'd shared, the closeness they'd achieved . . . it was all fabricated—born of Malfoy's vulnerability and the fact that Harry's job was to help him through an intense psychological battle.  

It didn't mean they were actually friends and it _certainly_ didn't mean anything more would happen between them.

He just hoped Malfoy wouldn't hate him.  Realistically, that was about the best he could ask for—and even that was a long shot.  It was distinctly possible that Malfoy would resent Harry and not want to see him again.

As the evening wore on and others filled in the seats around him, Harry began to hear whispers about Malfoy.  They sounded angry that he—of all people—would get to speak at the Anniversary.

“What kind of a role model is he, anyway?” Harry heard one woman snipe.  “If I had children, I’d pull them out of the school before I trusted them with that monster.”

“He has done a lot of good, though,” said her companion.  “For Muggles, surprisingly enough.”

“Right,” said the other.  “Just like his father when he donated all that money to St Mungos. You know it’s all for show.”

“I just can’t believe Professor McGonagall hired him back after stealing from the school.  He was high on Potions in front of the students, for Merlin’s sakes.”

The other woman tsked. “Terrible.” 

Harry had heard enough. Swallowing the remains of his Firewhisky faster than he'd intended, Harry reasoned that he could have another before he made his speech. Snatching Ron's glass before Hermione could tell him not to, Harry made his way up to the drinks table.  Eyeing the various options, he wondered which Firewhisky Malfoy recommended last year.

Harry recognized the green, expensive-looking bottle and almost asked for it when he quickly changed his mind.  If Malfoy couldn't have it anymore then, by some unwritten standard of solidarity, Harry shouldn't have it, either.

"Ogden's," Harry said to the House-Elf with a nod.  He passed him the two finger-print smudged glasses of melted ice.  The Elf frowned at the grease-stains, snapped a finger and conjured two clean cups of fresh ice.

"Well, well, well,"  a soft voice said from behind.

Harry spun around so quickly that his neck cracked.  There was no stopping the stupid, giant grin that immediately broke out on his face at the sight of the man before him—"Malfoy!"—or his stupid, grabby hand from reaching up and slapping the blond on the shoulder.  Harry's fingers latched onto expensive silk, fearful that if they let go, the man underneath would somehow disappear again. 

Malfoy's eyebrows raised to unnatural heights.  "Potter."  He glanced at the hand on his shoulder in baffled amusement.

"How are you?"  Harry really wished he could control the volume of his voice.

"I'd be fine if you stopped manhandling me—"

"Sorry."  Harry quickly pulled his fingers back and balled them into a fist.  "I just—"

"Missed me?"  Malfoy smirked.

Harry shrugged.  "Nah," he said, unconvincingly.

Malfoy's smirk broadened.  He leaned in lightly toward Harry's ear.  "Liar," he whispered, breath tickling Harry's neck.

Harry's gaze shifted upward.  Malfoy's gray eyes glinted mischievously and Harry noted that he was wearing a new pair of frames—steel gray, in a slightly thicker style.  Personally, Harry found the trendy look rather old-fashioned, but Susan insisted thick glasses were all the rage.  Either way, they suited Malfoy.

"Seriously," Harry said, relishing the way that his chest warmed, "how have you been?"

"Haven't you read about about me in the papers?" Malfoy asked with a frown. He looked disappointed at the idea that Harry hadn't been stalking him all year.

Which, of course, was very much not the case.  "Well, I might have read a few things. You know," Harry drawled, trying and failing to sound unaffected.  "Here and there." 

Malfoy grinned.

"I'm really proud of you," Harry added, finally dropping the pretense.

Malfoy rolled his eyes, but he was still grinning.  "And just think—I did it all myself.  As it turns out, hard work can be a decent replacement for luck in terms of getting what you want."

"And, what is it that you want?”

Malfoy opened his mouth to reply, then seemed to pause and reconsider.  As he did so, his eyelids fell slightly, his gaze dropping just below Harry's collar and back up again.  The little look made Harry flush, and he turned away, feeling just a bit awkward. He was just about to stutter out something incoherent, when a man and woman walked by, casting Malfoy with similar dark looks.

Malfoy, who hadn’t noticed, dug into his pocket and pulled something out.

"Fancy a game of cards, Potter?"  Malfoy held up the mutilated deck of Polar Bear playing cards that Harry had included in his gift basket.  

Harry laughed in disbelief. He couldn't believe Malfoy had them.  "You carry those around?" he asked, liking the idea more than was reasonable.   "Honestly, I thought you'd toss them."

Malfoy looked at him like he was crazy.  "I would never toss these," he said, holding them against his chest.  "I still haven't managed to peel them all apart yet."

"You do realize that's not the point of playing cards, right?"

Malfoy opened his mouth to answer but was cut off by  McGonagall casting a Sonorus and requesting that everyone take their seats.

A lump of nerves rose in Harry's chest and he swallowed hard, fishing about in his pocket for the speech.  It was right there, beside the Rubik's Cube—exactly where it had been all night.  Harry gave Malfoy an awkward wave, regretful that their pleasant conversation had been cut short, andthen he turned and headed toward the staff table.

"Hey, Potter," Malfoy called at his back.

Harry turned around.

Malfoy was smirking. "Good luck," he said.

"Uh, thanks?"   Harry didn't quite trust the look on his face, but he gave him a slight nod and turned away again.

"Oh, Potter?"

Harry paused.

"We won't let Voldemort ruin _this_ celebration, will we?"  

Harry spun around fully, his cheeks beginning to flame.  The people nearby who weren’t scowling at Malfoy were sniggering at Harry.

Malfoy winked at him and raised his pumpkin juice.  "Cheers, Hogwarts?" He nodded toward Harry and took a sip.

Harry rolled his eyes. "You are _such_ a git."

Malfoy laughed out loud.

….

….

….

Some time later, after he'd finished his mediocre speech, Harry made his way out of the Great Hall.  Making sure Filch's back was turned, Harry dodged into a corridor and began moseying through Hogwarts, as if he were still a student.

God, it was strange to be back.  He remembered these walls, this walk.  If Harry continued down this corridor and took the staircase on the left two flights down and then turned right, he would be near the Charms corridor.  And if he went to the right, he could take the winding, metal staircase directly to the Room of Requirement.

Was it still even there?   

Harry had been wondering about the room for years, but he couldn't bring himself to go inside of it.  What if he opened the door and the Fiendfyre was still blazing away, the room still an inferno of Dark Magic and destruction from a time period Harry would rather leave in the past?

Harry turned away briefly, then his eyes flicked back to the staircase.

Maybe just one look.  Just to see.

Steeling himself, Harry took the staircase up, the metal steps plunking like coins in a change purse as he wound his way to the 7th floor.  When he found himself in front of the Room of Requirement, he paused.

What should he wish for?

A place to hide?  A place to practice Defense?  

A room impervious to flames?

For the longest time, Harry stood, just staring at the door.  Something was holding him there—unable to enter and unable to walk away.

Whatever type of room he wished for, it had to be perfect.

Closing his eyes, Harry thought.  And thought. And thought.

When he finally admitted to himself that he wasn't going in, he snapped his eyes open.  To his immense surprise—a door had appeared.  Harry almost reached out, and then pulled his hand back, hesitating.

Was there something off about the magic?  Why hadn't he needed to think of anything or pace three times to access the room?  Was it full of Dark Magic now and trying to lure him in?

Harry took a step back and hit something warm and soft.

"Ow."

He whipped his head around, fumbling for his wand to find a familiar face looking back at him.  "Malfoy?" he yelped, his heart racing.

"Potter . . . what are you doing?" Malfoy asked carefully.  His eyes went from Harry to the door and back again.

"I—" he began.  "I was just.  Looking.  What are _you_ doing?”

“I needed a moment.” Malfoy looked nervous. “You're not supposed to be up here."

"I know, I know.  I  just wanted to see . . ."

Malfoy raised an eyebrow.  "Filch wouldn't be happy . . . " he said in a singsong voice.

"You can't tell Filch!"

"Why not?" Malfoy asked with a sniff.  "I'm a model employee these days, you know."

Harry couldn't help himself.  He shifted awkwardly.  "So, uh.  No-no borrowing from the stock room then?"  He was trying for casual and failing miserably.

Malfoy gave him a flat look.  "No, Potter."

"At all?"  It wasn't Harry's business anymore, but . . . 

Malfoy smirked and felt around his neck.  There was tiny charm on a silver chain that resembled a miniature hourglass.  Below it was a string of roman numerals.  "Two hundred, twenty seven days."

"Sober?" Harry's eyes widened and he reached out to touch the delicate-looking charm, turning it over in his hands.

" _Yes_ , Potter. Sober."  Malfoy tugged the chain back and crossed his arms. "Not even a sip of Butterbeer. Didn't you think I could do it?"

"Of course I did," said Harry, gesturing with the need to occupy his hands.  "But, you know how it is.  Sometimes when you want something really badly, it gets all mucked up."

Malfoy just stared at him.  Then he nodded toward the door.  "Want a look?"

"Er-," Harry hesitated.  "What's it like?"

"You mean is it still on fire?" 

Harry gave an uneasy nod.

Malfoy reached forward and turned the doorknob.  Harry couldn't help his own involuntary wince. "See for yourself."

Gathering his wits, Harry took a deep breath and  stepped inside the room.  It looked like The Room Of Hidden Things, only different.  The objects had changed and there were less of them.  The size of the room seemed smaller, too—large enough only to accommodate the mess.  

“It’s back," Harry mused.

Malfoy nodded.

"So the Room still works," said Harry, picking up a purple teapot.  The teapot sneezed out a cloud of dust and ash and he quickly set it back down.  It was amazing that after all of the carnage and destruction, something as simple as a door appearing for students to hide things, would still work.  It was a true sign that life went on.  While some people remained stuck in the past, Hogwarts had healed itself, continuing to be a magical beacon for the next generation of children. “Incredible.”

"I guess."

Harry looked at Malfoy, questioning.

"I suppose a part of me wished it was gone," Malfoy murmured, stepping into the room and tracing his hand over a velvet contraption buried beneath stacks of double-wicked candles.  "Too many memories."  His eyes flicked to the corner of the room where the Vanishing Cabinet once stood, then dropped to the floor.  A lingering scent of smoke filled the air, a too-small reminder for an event so disastrous. "Bad memories."

Harry couldn't help himself.  He reached forward and placed a hand over Malfoy's, stilling the idle movements.  He could feel the other man's hand freeze in place as their eyes met.  "Well," said Harry, the words rushing out, "let's change that."

Malfoy stared him, his features a mask.  "What do you mean?" he asked slowly.

Embarrassed, Harry stuttered, "I-I don't know, exactly."  He felt Malfoy's fingers slowly come to life underneath his own, and wrap around the outside of his hand.  Harry looked at it in minor shock, then back up at Malfoy.

"I don't mean to be presumptuous," Malfoy murmured, his eyes searching, "but did you mean—" he paused, nervous, "something like this?"

Harry's breath caught in his throat and Malfoy's eyes blinked rapidly and darted to the side.  Then he took a deep breath, closed his eyes and barely touched his lips to Harry's.  

Harry froze.

Malfoy pulled back, then quickly untangled his hand from Harry's.  He crossed his arms tightly over his chest in a protective gesture.  Then he laughed, but it looked pained.  "I don't know—I don't know why I thought . . ." Malfoy looked at the ceiling as his cheeks flushed.  "God, I'm an idiot."

"No—" Harry finally found his words. "You're not."

"I must have been _really_ out of it at the clinic," Malfoy remarked, holding back.  "For some reason, I thought you . . . and-and I–" He shook his head and ran a hand over his face. "God."

"You did?"  Harry eventually convinced himself that he'd made it all up in his head.  "Really?"

"Yes, really. Would you like me to write it down for you?" Malfoy snapped. His cheeks were bright pink.

"No-I just," Harry said, "I thought it was just me.  I've been beating myself up about it for months— telling myself it was all in my head—that it was inappropriate and you were in a vulnerable state of mind and—"

"There's nothing wrong with my state of mind now," said Malfoy, tipping his nose in the air.  He looked at the ceiling for a moment, then back at Harry, expectantly. 

Bolstering his courage, Harry stepped forward, wrapped a hand around each of Malfoy's crossed forearms and did his best to kiss him properly.

This time, the kiss was slower, more explorative.  Malfoy's arms dropped loosely at his sides as Harry ran his thumbs over the material of his dress robes.  He had to tilt his head to the side to keep their glasses from bumping, but other than that bit of awkwardness, there was an overwhelming rush of warm emotion that made Harry feel strangely protective.

It just felt right—like going back to Hogwarts after a summer with the Dursley's—Harry was right back where he was supposed to be. 

"There," Malfoy whispered.  "Now you can add my name to your pathetically short list."  He ran one warm finger along Harry's jaw.  

"You know," Harry murmured back, "I think the Patil twins are downstairs.  Perhaps I should ask if they remember which one snogged you—"

Malfoy laughed nervously.  "I think not, Potter."  He leaned in slightly, as though he were about to kiss Harry again, but then ducked back and looked at the floor.

"What is it?"

"This is just . . . sort of surreal," Malfoy admitted with a frown.  "Things pretty much never go my way.  And—" he laughed, but his face looked pained.  "And, Potter?  Be serious."

Harry shook his head.  "Wh—I am. What do you mean?"

Malfoy raised his eyebrows and cast a sweeping gesture at himself.  "Me?  Really?"

" _Yes."_ Harry was baffled.  "What are you saying?"

With a dramatic eye roll, Malfoy sighed.  "Do I have to spell it out for you?"

"Apparently."

"Potter."  Malfoy was looking right at him.  "As much as it pains me to admit, you know more about me than even my own mother."  

Harry waited for him to continue.

"The things you saw . . . heard . . ." He paused, looking troubled.  "The whole thing was humiliating." Malfoy shrugged. "I'm doing okay, yeah?  But-but _you_ know better than anyone else what I really am." 

Harry followed Malfoy's eyes to his Dark Mark.  "The war was—"

"Not just the war," the blond snapped, gesturing wildly. "Me!  An addict, a thief, a liar. . . I treated you like shite for years, Potter, and despite the fact that you deserved most of it—"

Harry rolled his eyes.

"—the reason I did those things was because, well, because it’s just the kind of person I am."  Harry could hear a slight tremor in Malfoy's voice.  He turned abruptly away from Harry, one hand resting on a floating wooden door that appeared to lead to nowhere.

"Malfoy," Harry touched his shoulder lightly and Malfoy flinched, violently shrugging him off.  Harry could hear a sniffling sort of sound and froze up.  "What is it?"

A bitter laugh was Malfoy's response.  "Come on, Potter.  Be serious."

Harry shook his head. "I don't understand."

"I'm . . . flawed." Malfoy's voice was weak.  "Don't you get it?  There’s a room full of people downstairs that _hate_ me.  I’m not an idiot, you know, I can hear what they’re saying.  And they’re _right_.  I _am_ a Death Eater.  I’ve hurt innocent people and endangered the lives of students.  I’m an addict.  I’m a thief—I’m all those things.”  He gave a bitter laugh.  “And I thought it was bad when we had a werewolf for a teacher.” 

Harry resisted the urge to defend Lupin. "And you're also brilliant."  He felt more sure about the truth of those words than anything else he had said that night. 

Malfoy shook his head slowly.  "Well, I know that," he laughed thickly, resting his head against his arm. "But, people can’t see past the rest of it.”

Harry stepped forward, in line with the door and faced Malfoy.  "I can.  I can see who you really are.  And you’re a good person and a fine teacher.  And you don’t need a bunch of Rita Skeeter-worshipping idiots to justify your worth.” 

Malfoy gave him a blurry smile.  "You're such a sentimental sod."

Harry shrugged, sheepishly.  "Yeah, well."  And then he had an idea.  Proving that he was, indeed, a sentimental sod, Harry reached into his pocket and pulled out the Rubik's Cube that he had carried with him for eight months.

"What's that?"

Harry held it out for Malfoy to see.  More of the curling, dirty stickers had fallen off over the past few months. "Flawed, right?" He waved it in Malfoy's face.  "I’ll never be able to solve it, but I'm not getting rid of it, because for some odd reason,I like it."

Malfoy's eyes widened.  "I thought you threw it away!"  He reached for it, but Harry held it back.

"How could I?"

Malfoy gave him a knowing look.  "Alright, alright, give it here."

"So you can mess it up again?"

"It's already messed up!" Malfoy laughed, his eyes bright.  "Give it here, I'll fix it."

"Not without collateral.  What have you got?"

A smile stretched over Malfoy's pale face.  "Well," he said, slowly, "I may have something that will be of interest to you."  He reached into his own pocket and pulled out a small, pliable rectangle. He handed it to Harry.

_Bookworms Are Cool!_ it read.

"Hey-this is mine!" Harry shook the bookmark in the air. The flobberworm flopped back and forth.  "How the hell did you get this?" 

Malfoy grinned and raised an eyebrow.  "You gave it to me, didn't you?"

"No, I didn't!"

"Actually," drawled Malfoy, tapping his chin, "you did. It was inside the bag with my wand."

"And you kept it all this time?" Harry asked in disbelief.  He was having trouble controlling the volume of his voice.

Malfoy shrugged.  "Well," he said, "I guess you aren't the only sentimental sod around here. Plus," he reached forward and plucked the bookmark out of Harry's hand and stuck it back in his pocket, "it's quite useful."

Harry grinned.  "Oh, right.  How else would you mark the pages in your _Bobby the Beater_ books?"

Malfoy sputtered his protest.  "I do _not_ read _Bobby The Beater_!"  And then, less insistent and a bit more petulant. "I _am_ an adult, you know." He crossed his arms. Harry put an arm around his shoulders and began to guide him out of the Room of Requirement.

"Yes," said Harry, giving his shoulders a light squeeze.  "I know.”

Malfoy scowled. "And, they're good books, besides," he muttered.  "You wouldn’t know."  Malfoy uncrossed arms and placed one hand tentatively against Harry's stomach. He began to fiddle with the fabric of his robes.  Harry melted slightly at the warmth of his touch. He wished he could press the hand more closely against him—and wished he could do the same with the rest of Malfoy.

As they crossed the threshold of the magical room, Harry paused for a moment to look back inside.  So many things had changed over the last six years, some good, some bad and some not at all. He glanced at Malfoy who was tapping his foot impatiently and pointing his wand at the Rubik's cube.

And some things, Harry thought as Malfoy's face lit up amidst a flash of yellow, were just easier to notice now.

"I got it!"  Malfoy cried.  He proudly held up the Rubik's cube.  One side was now solid green and the other five were sticker-less black plastic squares covered in a gooey residue.  Malfoy waggled his eyebrows and went to stick the toy in his pocket, but Harry quickly Summoned it back. "Hey!"

"No, _I've_ got it."

"Oh, ho,  Clever, Potter."  Malfoy snagged Harry's elbow and began dragging him from the room  "Come on.  I've still got _my_ bloody speech to make.  And you know how gifted I am at public speaking."   Malfoy gave him a meaningful look and Harry could see the anxiety in his eyes.

"I'm proud of you," Harry couldn't help saying.  “I know what a big deal this must be.”

Malfoy seemed to light up for a moment, relishing Harry's praise. Then he tipped his pointy nose into the air.  "Don't patronize me."

"I'm not, you prat."

Malfoy huffed. "Come on, quit dragging your feet."  The blond gripped his forearm tightly and pulled him toward the staircase.  Harry glanced back over his shoulder for a moment, just as the door to the Room of Requirement faded back into a solid wall. "I have many important things to say and we can’t keep everyone waiting. Hup, hup, Potty. Get a move on."

Harry rolled his eyes.  Anxious though Malfoy might be, he was still the same bratty Malfoy.

Halfway down the stairs, though, Malfoy stopped, throwing his arms out to either side and latching onto the railings.  Harry ran into his back.  He was just opening his mouth when Malfoy spun around, his eyes wide.

“I can’t do it,” he murmured, pressing himself against the wall.  His breaths were coming in quick and shallow. “I’m not doing it.”

“What?” Harry asked in concern.  “Your speech?”

“Send a Patronus, tell McGonagall I’ve fallen ill,” Malfoy whimpered.  “No-wait, you aren’t supposed to be up here.  Er-go find Filch and tell him to send–no, _wait!_  He’s a bloody Squib. Dammit!” Malfoy stomped a foot on the metal stair.

“Hey, calm down!” 

“If I stutter, they’re going to laugh at me.”  Malfoy looked frantic.  “I’ve developed somewhat of a stutter this year, Potter, I do it in class all the time.”

Harry sighed.  “You don’t have a stutter.”

“What do _you_ know?” Malfoy nearly shrieked. “I _do so!”_

“Malfoy, just go up there and say what you have to say.”

“They don’t care what I have to say!” Malfoy cried, running an agitated hand through his hair.  “They don’t care what I’ve done—well, at least not about anything good I’ve done.”  He squeezed his eyes shut.  “I heard some bloke saying I’d be better off dead.  That it was too bad I hadn’t overdosed on Felix so McGonagall could just be rid of me.” 

“Malfoy—”

“And you know what?” The hurt in his eyes was evident.  “The people with him _agreed._ ”

As much as Harry wanted to punch whoever said that in his self-righteous mouth, that wasn’t what Malfoy needed right now.  “Is that what _you_ think?” Harry snapped.

Malfoy shrugged, shrinking back at bit.

“Well, do you?”

“No.”

“Well, it isn’t what I think, either.  Is it what McGonagall thinks?”

Malfoy huffed and shook his head.

“Your parents?”

“No—but I _am_ an addict.  And-”

“Oh, so addicts’  lives are less important than everyone else’s, is that what you’re saying?”

Malfoy shrugged, his lips pressed tightly together.

“Chelsea was an addict, too.  Was her life unimportant?” Malfoy’s eyes flashed.  “Is she better off dead?”

“ _Fuck you_ ,” Malfoy snarled.  “I’m different than Chelsea and you know it.”

“How?  She didn’t seem to think so. She seemed to think you were kindred spirits.”

Malfoy looked like he was about to yell something back when his face scrunched up.  He blinked rapidly, swallowing hard.  

“So, you’re just going to curl up in a ball and give up because a few people don’t like you?  Fuck them.  Fuck their opinions.  Who the hell are they?”

“The general public.”

“So?”

Malfoy frowned for a moment, lost in thought. Then he repeated what Harry had told him in therapy. He gave a short little nod.  “So what?”

“That’s right,” Harry clapped him on the shoulder. “So what? Go out there and say whatever it is you want to say.  Forget about everyone else.  They don’t know you and you aren’t speaking up there to try and get them to like you.  You’re doing it in honor of the children that you’ve helped and to spread awareness about an important cause.”

The blond nodded softly.  “Okay.”

“Okay? You’re ready?”

Malfoy squeezed his eyes shut for another long moment and then exhaled. “Yeah.  Yes, I’m ready.”

They turned and continued down the stairs, murmuring “so what” over and over again under his breath as if it were a mantra.  Which, Harry reasoned, it sort of was.

….

….

….

An uneasy hush fell over the Great Hall as Malfoy stepped up to the podium.  It was strange to see Malfoy standing in the same spot that Dumbledore had proudly stood all those years ago.  Last year, when Malfoy stood up there, he’d been a very different person.  At the time, he’d appeared wholly confident.  He’d made his speech, handed over the ridiculously large sum of Gricharak’s money, seemingly blind to any whispers or criticism. Though, now that Harry thought it about it, there had been surprisingly little hostility.  It must have been an effect of the Felix Felicis, because Harry was quite sure that last year, even before everyone knew about his Felix scandal, Malfoy was generally disliked by the Wizarding community as a whole.

This year, Malfoy’s hands shook as he placed his speech on the podium.  He squinted for a moment, then took off his glasses and began to wipe them nervously on his robes.  

Harry could tell he was stalling.  

Finally, Malfoy placed his wand in the holder and cast a Sonorus.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.  I am Professor Draco Malfoy, the—”

“Shut your trap, you rotten scum!” yelled a man.

Malfoy’s head whipped up and he gazed into the sea of faces, clearly unable to discern who had said it.

“Oh no,” Hermione put a hand to her mouth. “Poor Malfoy.”

“Come on,” Harry whispered, his hand balling into a fist as he silently cheered for him. “Keep at it.”

Malfoy cleared his throat and continued reading.  “Throughout the world, there are many Muggle children with physical handicaps whose mental faculties are fully intact.  Muggle medicine does very little to help these children operate independently.  However, with Magical intervention—”

“The fact that you’re even allowed _near_ children is disgraceful!” called a woman.  “And Muggles?  They’re just lucky they don’t know who you really are or it’d give them nightmares.”

“Nightmares?” cried another.  “He’s probably been poisoning them.”

Malfoy’s eyes widened slightly and his voice shook. He was gripping the golden Phoenix wings of the podium so tightly that his knuckles were even whiter than his skin. “S-so, I conducted some research which yielded very interesting results.  First. First I went to the home of a third year Hufflepuff, Kathryn Gallagher.  I’d been there for a routine visit—”

“You visit the homes of _Hufflepuffs_?”

Shutting his eyes, Malfoy took a deep breath.  “I visit the homes of students to check up on them and see that they are safe.”  He opened his eyes.  “Slytherins are not my only students.  My concern for the welfare and safety of our children extends to all—”

Someone scoffed loudly.  “ _Our_ children?  Is this joker serious?”

At that, McGonagall whose nostrils were flared more severely than Harry had seen in a long time, stood and cast her own Sonorus.  “Ladies and gentlemen.  I understand that we all have differing opinions and personal experiences that have, perhaps, colored our ability to forgive, however, I will not stand to have a member of my staff be disrespected in my own school.”  Her voice shook fiercely as she looked out into the Great Hall, her eyes wide and challenging.

“Professor McGonagall,” someone called out from Harry’s left.  It was Seamus, Harry noted with disappointment. “Ma’am. You know I think the world of you and I wouldn’t normally question your judgement, but-” Seamus made a frustrated noise. “D’you really think it’s appropriate to have a Death Eater making a speech at the Anniversary of a battle that he partly started?”  A chorus of assent rose around Seamus as the crowd began to grow louder, emboldened each time someone else spoke.

Harry kept his eyes trained on Malfoy.  He could see his lips moving slightly and could just make out the shape of the words, “so what.”

“And what would you suggest, Mr. Finnegan?” snapped McGonagall. “That Draco Malfoy be punished for the rest of his life for mistakes he made as a teenager?  I knew you, Mr. Finnegan, as a teenager and I very much doubt you’d appreciate similar treatment.” 

“Teenager?” a man with a bristly mustache called from the Ravenclaw table. “That _man_ is a dangerous Potions addict, for Merlin’s sakes.  He’s been stealing from Hogwarts, from _you_ , hell! He’s been stealing from all of us!  My tax dollars are going to pay for that scum bag’s salary _and_ for the ingredients he’s been ripping off the school?  It’s absolutely preposterous.”

“This is _not_ a town hall meeting, Mister Berkeley.”  McGonagall’s voice was reaching new heights.  Ron and Hermione raised their eyebrows, exchanging a look.  Hermione looked upset. Ron, however, look mildly amused by all of the commotion.  Harry was livid.  His blood was absolutely boiling.  He was on the verge of saying something himself when—

“Sir,” Malfoy snarled suddenly. “Sit. Down. _Now._ ”  He waved his wand and cast a Mis-Balancing Spell, tilting the startled man back into his seat. “And if you say another word of disrespect to this woman, I’ll-I’ll—” Malfoy paused.  He seemed to rethink the wisdom of openly threatening someone in a room of people who already thought he was violent and dangerous.  “I’ll have you removed.”  Malfoy gave a sharp nod. “As I was saying,” he continued in a cool drawl—

“Look here, you filth.  We want some bloody answers.”

Malfoy met the gaze of the person who had called out.  It was another Ravenclaw, several years his senior.  “Language, Melody,” Malfoy admonished, his voice scathing.  “There are children about.”

The woman seemed shocked that he remembered her name.

“And answers,” Malfoy said, smoothing back his blond hair. “You want answers?” He gave a soft chuckle and shook his head.  “You’re barking up the wrong tree, then, because I don’t have any.  In fact, that was one of the most important lessons I learned during the war.  Sometimes there just aren’t any answers.  And if you don’t like that, then that’s too bad.  Sure, I could _fabricate_ answers.  I could stand up here and tell you that I never had a choice.  That I was forced to become a Death Eater by the—Voldemort.” He lifted his chin slightly.  “I could say that I played no part in my addiction—that I was just an unwilling victim of circumstance.”

Malfoy shook his head. “But I’m not going to lie to you. Not today.  I know that many of you are offended by mypresence up here tonight. That’s understandable. I’ve made some regrettable decisions in my life that many of you are not comfortable with.  However, I do know this. Life is what you make of it.  It’s a series of choices, like-” Malfoy’s eyes crinkled up- “like a _Bobby The Beater_ Choose Your Own Adventure Novel.” He lowered his voice.  “I only know about those because my students read them, of course,” he said with a wink, then gave himself a slight smack on the head.  “Wait a minute. I just swore I wouldn’t lie to you.” 

A few daring people allowed themselves to laugh, but not Harry.  His stomach was tied up in too many knots as if he were watching the end of a Championship Quidditch Match.  It was still anybody’s game.

“In a choose your own adventure novel,” Malfoy continued, “one is given a choice every few pages.  You can either choose to, say, purchase a new Firebolt with all of Bobby’s money, or save the money for a rainy day.  Then you turn to the page that corresponds with the choice and continue on your journey.  Each book has loads of different endings.  As a reader, rooting for Bobby, you do the best you can, but you’re bound to make mistakes along the way.  Several choices down the line, you might find out that purchasing the Firebolt was a mistake because it’s suddenly banned at Nationals for not meeting standard broomstick regulations.”

“What the hell is he talking about?” someone muttered. Ron shushed them.  For the first time all night, Ron looked completely captivated. 

“Or you might find out that if Bobby took the money and not the broomstick, he’d eventually be robbed, or squander it, or maybe even spend it on groceries that give him food poisoning and still prevent him from playing at Nationals.”

Malfoy gave a slight smile.  To the rest of the world, he appeared confident, but Harry could tell that he was a nervous wreck by the tightness in his shoulders.

“What I guess I’m trying to say is, we all have to make choices.  Our choices aren’t always right, but we do the best that we can with what we have.  And then the choices we make serve as the evidence on which others base their judgements.  It’s understandable, of course.  It’s what is visible and obvious.”

Malfoy paused for a moment and took a steadying breath. Then he continued. “ I have made some  horrible  choices in my life.  Choices that _ruined_ my life.  Choices that nearly ended it.  Time and again, I made what I perceived to be the wrong choice.  Everything I did was _wrong_.  Everything.” His voice shook for a moment and then he cleared it.

“Then I found what I thought was a solution.” Malfoy shrugged.  “I can see now that it wasn’t—it was just another very bad choice. But, still. I’m here.  And if I’m still here, I can still do good.  I can try.  And I _have_.”

Malfoy bowed his head for a moment.  “Not everyone gets that chance,” he whispered.  “Sometimes a bad choice is a last choice.” Malfoy sniffed and cleared his throat again.  “When people start believing that they are no more than what others say they are—” his voice cracked.  ‘Well, they’re wrong.  Some of you think I’m nothing but a Death Eater and a Potions addict. You’re wrong about me.”

“It’s so easy to paint a picture of what we think others are.” Malfoy let out a short laugh.  “That people equate to no more than the sum of their parts, that an addict is no more than a person on potions, that a former Death Eater serves absolutely no purpose in this world.”  Suddenly Malfoy scowled and smacked the podium.  “I’m _still here._ ”  He shook his head, slightly and softened his voice, gesturing at his chest. “I’m still here.  When so many others are gone.” He shrugged. “Why me? It’s a question that I tormented myself with for years.  People like,” he gestured to the Great Hall, “those that shared with us today, told me to my face that I didn’t deserve to live.  In fact, I heard someone an hour ago say that I was better off dead.”

A series of gasps could be heard throughout the Great Hall.

“That person is wrong,” Malfoy stated.  “I’m here for a reason.   _You_ ,” he gestured to faces in the room, most of which had lost their hostility and some that even managed to look ashamed. “You are all here for a reason.  We are the lucky ones.  We survived.  No matter what awful or wonderful choices we’ve made in our lives, somehow we all ended up right here, tonight.”

“And I’m standing here right now because I’m meant to be and because I want to be.”  Malfoy looked over at Harry, finally, and smiled.  Harry shook his head slightly, grinning with pride. “And most of all, because I chose to be.” 

The Great Hall was silent for a moment.  Suddenly, one person started clapping, then two.  And within seconds, nearly every person in the room was applauding for Malfoy.  He gave a gracious bow, then turned the podium over to McGonagall.

For a split second, Harry wished he’d given Malfoy’s speech himself, but the fact was, it wouldn’t have meant much coming from him.  Malfoy had been right; with confidence, he _was_ an excellent speaker.  To Harry’s left, Hermione wiped at her eyes with a cloth napkin.  Harry ran his fingers over the Rubik’s Cube in his pocket, thinking about choices.

“Harry,” Ron whispered, sidling up on Harry’s right.

“Yeah?”

“I take back what I said before, at the hospital.”

“What did you say?”

“I said that Malfoy was a complete nutter.”  Ron gave a loose shrug. “Eh, well, maybe he is, but he does seem like an okay bloke these days.”

Harry nodded.  “He is.”  As Harry’s best friend, Ron’s acceptance meant a lot.

“Maybe you rubbed off on him,” Ron said.  When Harry began to snicker like a thirteen year old, Ron’s eyes widened in horror.  “Not like that!”

Harry began laughing out loud.

“What’s so funny?” Looking up, he saw that Malfoy was standing beside the Gryffindor table, rosy cheeked.

“Nothing,” Harry said quickly, trying to wipe the guilty smirk off his face.  Ron dropped his head into his hands.

“Come sit up at the staff table for a bit,” Malfoy said.

“Er-I don’t know.”

“Oh, come _on!_ ” Malfoy tugged on his hand.  “Just for a minute.  Flitwick’s got this—thing, well, I can’t tell you.  And Trelawney . . . “ He started laughing.

Harry raised an eyebrow.

“Well, you just have to see for yourself.”

Malfoy pulled Harry up from the Gryffindor table and led him to the front of the room.  Just before he let go of his hand, Malfoy gave Harry’s fingers a soft squeeze.  Harry squeezed back.  There was a pleased smirk on Malfoy’s face and Harry felt the corners of his own mouth turn up.

 As he walked, he noticed the looks on the faces of those around him.  The people who had been sneering at Malfoy earlier were now nodding their heads or ignoring him entirely.  Malfoy’s shoulders were drawn back and his nose was pointed up in the air.  Right where it belonged, Harry thought. 

From his view on staff table platform, Harry looked out at the sea of faces once more and thought about how much one could accomplish in six years.  Harry had defeated a Dark Wizard, dropped out of Auror training and become a fully licensed Healer.  Malfoy had floundered for the majority of the time, but he had still done the best he could with what he had.

Malfoy was right. As long as Harry never gave up—as long as he was _here_ —he could do good. 

And with Malfoy beside him, giggling like a loon at a toy cockroach swimming in someone’s soup, Harry was certain that they were both right where they were meant to be. 

 .............

Please leave comments/feedback at [HP_GetLucky](http://hp-getlucky.livejournal.com/31096.html) !!!  Thanks for reading :) <3 Kristen


End file.
